Weep
by Lady of Dov
Summary: The story of a lonely jester who falls for a melancholic dancer just as mad as he. Cicero&OC. OC is the Listener but not the Dragonborn.
1. A New Child for Mother

_This opening chapter turned out way longer than I had planned. Future chapters will not be this long._

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_Oh_, was it not enough that they were already such lousy, lazy blasphemy to the face of Sithis?

It just seemed rather excessive to Cicero that they all had to be so _boring_ as well.

Cicero sighed sorrowfully as he watched a number of the Brotherhood's remaining handful of assassins lounge apathetically around the dining area of the Sanctuary. The un-child and the grey-snob were talking of flowers and moss and where to find them... as if they didn't know those things could be found in the cave. And perhaps they didn't. The Redguard napped at the table, something which angered Cicero. When he had slept at the table before, they had all yelled at him to get to his room. But no one yelled at the shadow-skin. The Pretender sat on a counter, eating her baked potatoes while reading with her chin held high like the queen she thought she was. This aggravated Cicero most of all.

Altogether, the atmosphere of the Sanctuary was as it usually was: stagnant and stale as the air of the cave it found itself in. It was quite depressing for Cicero actually.

Where were the banners? The songs? Where was that air of festivity and joy for bringing glory to Sithis and the Dark Brotherhood's name? Where was the pride in one's handiwork and having brought a new soul to the Dread Lord? Where did the love of blood and shadow go... Oh, where did it _go_ since Alexandre Dupre left for the void?

They were also passionless. Cicero spied down on his fellow "siblings" beneath him, eating and loitering about. He was laid out on his belly peering down at them from where he was near the top of the steps leading to the bunks. He knew they could see them, but he didn't mind. They wouldn't do anything about him, he knew. No, no. They were far, _far_ to lazy and apathetic to do anything it seemed, much less care. Perhaps that was why the place was so _filthy_. That was something Cicero did not fail to notice upon first entering this so called "Sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood." _Hmph_. His siblings from the past, during their Dark Ages, weren't anything like this. They didn't have a lazy bone in their bodies- _not one!_ They wouldn't have let this place waste away like this.

Cicero found himself muttering lowly as he often did, "_We_ at least kept it clean... scrubbed out the blood, beat the dust from the tapestries... because we _had_ them... swept the rubble and kept the place polished and orderly- everything had a place... and the moss' and mushrooms' places were in the garden- their _only_ place..."

His comments had not gone unnoticed to the Blasphemer Queen, who stopped her reading to look up at him scornfully. This was something that brought glee to Cicero. He giggled and wiggled his feet happily.

"Filthy, filthy children." he chuckled.

"_Things sticky and wet,_

_Make Mother upset._

_Dust and crust_

_Rusts her trust._

_But just a little dirt,_"

He burst in to a fit of giggles before, "_and you're in for some hurt!_"

The Pretender put down her book, looking as though she was about to say something to Cicero, so he readied himself for another speech. Straightening up the head he had rested in his hands, wiggling his feet anew, and putting on his best... _smile_.

"The Pretender wishes to speak to Cicero," he chuckled, knowing full well what he was doing. "Why, Cicero is _honored_."

"Astrid..." Nazir warned.

The Pretender waved a hand at him, silencing the shadow-skin.

"No, Nazir! It's time that we've taught that- that- _fool_-"

Cicero rolled his eyes. 'Fool'. How _original_.

"Just who is in charge here. I will not be-"

"Astrid! _Astrid!_ Who the hell is this!" Called the lapdog, Arnyborne. Was that his name? Arenboyner? Bornarn?

The werewolve's yells continued to carry through the cave. He was getting closer and he sounded angry.

The Pretender sighed and turned around.

"What are you talking about?" she called out. "Who the hell is _what?_"

The Pretender's mate of sorts marched in then, dragging in a weeping young woman by the hair.

"_Oooh_," Cicero cackled. "Look at what the doggy dragged in!"

Goldie-locks shot the jester a look before turning back to her mate.

"I thought I told you not to bring your meals in here, Arnbjorn!" So that was his name.

The mutt shouted back at the little woman, "This isn't a meal- at least not yet! I found this girl in the Sanctuary! As in, that was the first place I saw her! That was why I was coming to _you_ to ask _you_ if _you_ had added any new members to the family!"

The Pretender lowered her voice, "No, she doesn't belong here..."

Cicero laughed, "_Ooh_, an intruder! A spy! Or innocent sweetie!"

He burst into giggles again before saying, "It's so hard to tell- but which one is she?"

"Shush, Cicero." the un-child said quietly.

The not-Speaker walked over to the girl, inspecting the stranger as if there were something of interest in her.

Well, this was interesting... The most interesting thing to happen since he had gotten here.

"Now what is all this racket about," the wizard snapped, walking in.

"Arnbjorn found this girl..." the little monster said quietly.

"Is she really not one of us, Astrid?" shadow-skin asked.

"Of course she isn't!" the Pretender barked. "Why would there be this fuss if she _wasn't_?"

"Then how did she get in here?" He asked, though more to himself.

"That's what I want to know." The Pretender turned back to the girl.

"Who are you? What's your name? If you're thinking about lying to me, I'd suggest you'd think _twice_."

The girl sniffed, still bent and pained by the grip the dog had on her hair.

"Critare," she said quietly. "That's my name. Critare."

The Pretender crossed her arms, "Alright, _Critare_. Now tell me, do you have any idea where you are?"

"A cave." she said, a tear falling down her cheek.

Cicero guffawed, causing the girl to look around the room wide-eyed for him. Cicero realized that the girl probably couldn't see him like the others could from where he was above her in the shadows. Without the trained eye of someone who's prowled in the shadows...

The blood hound twisted his grip on Critare's hair, drawing a cry from the small thing.

"She knows where she is... " he seethed.

"Arnbjorn," the Pretender said, "let her go."

He bared his teeth at his mate and growled.

"I said: _let her go_." she said more firmly.

The dog growled louder but obeyed his little mate.

It wasn't until the girl stood fully up that Cicero really had a good look at her. He couldn't help but chuckle. Dripping wet in her tattered black dress that fell just below her knees with her slight, feather-light frame and length of raven hair tangled with flowers and leaves, she looked just like a little wood faery that had her wings plucked. So sad, so sad...

Cicero giggled.

She looked around at her captors, fresh tears falling down her cheeks. Her large, dark eyes were wide with fright and uncertainty as they went from face to face, taking everyone in. She lowered her eyes then.

"Don't play games with me." The Pretender warned her. "Now, I'll ask you again. Do you know where you are?"

The girl stared at the ground at her feet, shaking. Whether from fear or from cold, Cicero couldn't tell. Maybe both?

She whispered, "I don't know where I am..."

A few more moments passed with nothing other than Astrid's livid gaze on the girl filling them.

"She's a spy." The dog sneered.

"No! No! I'm not a spy, I swear!"

"She's not lying," the un-child spoke up.

The not-Speaker pulled back a corner of her lip ever so slightly. "I'm not so sure."

"I'm not lying! I'm not!" the girl whimpered.

"_Arnbjorn_!" the un-child cried, standing on her chair. "Tell Astrid she's not lying! _Tell her!_"

The Pretender looked at her husband who shook his head. Her gaze traveled back to the girl, Critare.

"Well, Critare, it seems that you really don't know where you are, so I'll tell you. Right now, you're inside the last living sanctuary of the Dark Brotherhood. You know what that is, don't you?"

Critare nodded, "I think that they were assassins."

"_Were_? My dear, we _are_. And we're very secretive. So secretive, in fact, it is impossible to get in to contact with us... or pay us a visit unless you're either one of us or invited to join us. Which is why I have to ask: just how _did_ you get in here?"

Critare sniffed, "I was picking flowers. I saw some bushes of nightshade by a black pond... I didn't want to go in the door," new tears were springing down her face, "but the woman, she said she wanted to see me. She told me that the door wanted me to tell it, 'Silence, my brother'..."

Her voice began to quicken, "I don't know why. I just thought I should listen. And then- then the door opened. She told me to come in and so I did and-"

"Wait, wait." the Pretender stopped her, waving her hand. "What woman? _Who_ told you to come in? Was it either of these," she gestured to Babette and Gabriella.

When Critare shook her head, the Pretender sighed angrily.

"Alright, what did the woman look like, then?" the not-Speaker went on.

"I don't know... I didn't see her..." Critare wept.

"What do you mean, you 'didn't see her'?" _Oh_, temper, temper, Miss Pretender.

"I only heard her voice."

"Do you think that I'm some sort of _fool?_"

Cicero raised his hand, but the gesture went unnoticed.

"No," the faery-girl whimpered.

"Then why do you-"

Doggy cleared his throat.

"She's telling the truth. I saw her picking flowers in the lobby when I finally noticed her- had a bunch of them, too. And I didn't smell anyone on her either."

"Explain to me how you think that's possible then? How do you think some stranger can just walk in here without anyone having tipped her off?"

The doggy growled, "I didn't say I know how! I said her story is consistent and she's telling the truth. Isn't she, finger-pie?"

The un-child rolled her eyes, "No, she is. I'd be the _last_ person to figure out how she got in here, but as far as I can tell, she's telling us the truth. Some invisible woman we don't know about, told her how to get past the door. Simple. I guess now the question really is: what do we do about it?"

The Pretender stared at the faery while a conversation went on with the others.

"Well, we can't just let her leave." The shadow-skin started.

"_Nazir!_" the wizard shouted, "You can't be serious! Look at her, she is just a-"

"Just a little pheasant bone that walked in here and now knows what we are! You really want to release her back out into the world?" Arnbjorn barked.

"I have to agree with Arnbjorn on this one," long-ears cut in. "She may _look_ harmless, but who's to say what she'll do when she's out of here?"

"I say, kill her!" Cicero shouted as he smiled manically. "Slay her! Let her blood spill out on the floors!"

The girl jumped and continued shaking. Her wide, tearful eyes searched the room for the source that proposed her death. This made Cicero giggle. Poor girl wouldn't see him coming.

"Quiet, Cicero." said everyone but the Pretender and her lap-dog, who had instead said, "Quiet, clown!"

Cicero pouted, but did not protest.

"You children are a _joke!_" the wizard snapped. "In my time, we would have never been so shaken by some little wisp of a woman! Back then, we knew who _we_ were- the scariest things you'd ever hope to cross while living in Tamriel!"

The doggy snarled, "Watch yourself, you washed-up peice of shi-!"

"Arnbjorn!" The Pretender shrilled. "That will be enough! From _all_ of you!"

The Pretender turned back to the little weeper.

"Critare," she said, "Does anyone know you're out here?"

The faery shook her head.

"Do you have any family- anyone who would care if you went missing?"

The girl shook her head again.

Cicero smiled fiercely, gripping the handle of his dagger tightly.

"_Oh-ho-ho!_" he cackled quietly, "Just what Cicero was thinking..."

The Pretender narrowed her gaze but ignored the jester and continued her interrogation as Cicero went on, singing:

"_Small blight,_

_Small sprite._

_Poor child filled with fright._

_I wish I may,_

_I wish I might,_

_Send her soul to Sithis, tonight._"

"Are you sure?" The Pretender asked. "No family? No friends? No acqaintences of any kind?"

The faery shook her head once more.

"No," she whispered. "I haven't had family- or friends- for a long, long time. I hardly remember them... I don't think they remember me, either now."

"Arnbjorn? Babette?" The Pretender called.

The dog grunted while the little blood-drinker said, "She means it, Astrid. Nobody knows her... "

The next few moments passed in silence with Cicero waiting for something to happen, as quiet and tightly wound as ever.

The doggy snapped first, "So let's kill her already, _damn it!_"

He grabbed the girl by her hair causing her to start weeping again. Despite this, she did not try to physically resist the over-grown pup, something Cicero found... odd. And disapointing. Didn't this girl know she had to be screaming and begging and fighting for her life right now?

"No- no, please!" the little girl quietly begged. _Ah_, there it was.

"Please don't kill me. I don't want to die! Please... " Hmm, still not loud enough. Cicero wondered if he could draw something loud out of her when he was finally carving into her little body.

"Let her go, Arnbjorn." the Pretender said firmly.

Her pet growled loudly but obeyed, throwing the little faery to the ground with a flick of his wrist.

When the weeper made no move to get back up, the Pretender kicked her and barked for her to stand. She stood, but kept her eyes low and shook more violently than she had during the whole situation.

"Well," the Pretender began. "Since you have no family, no friends, or anyone else who would happen to know you-"

Cicero smiled menacingly.

"- it would seem that this is your lucky day. I'm going to spare your life, Critare. And in return, you're going to repay me the debt of your life as a slave for my family for the rest of your days. How does that sound?"

Cicero scoffed.

The faery gulped, "So... if I become your slave, I don't have to die?"

"Yes, and that is the only option I am giving you. Now, are you going to accept my proposal?"

Critare nodded. Cicero sneered looking down at them all darkly.

"Well, then... " the Pretender began, looking awfully pleased with herself. "Welcome to our home, Critare. Tomorrow, you can begin your duties.

"Babette, give this girl a tour of our home and get her cleaned up. Then I want you to find this girl somewhere to sleep for the night."

"But we have no more beds?" The tiny un-child squeaked.

"Find some spare hay lying around and lay it out somewhere decent, then."

"Alright." She said as she got her chair.

The half-ling padded over to the feary and took her hand.

"We're going to be best friends, I know it." she smiled as she led the weeper out of the room.

"You lucked-out, roast-spit." The lap-dog called out after the crying faery.

Everyone but the wizard, who looked rather relieved by the outcome, seemed entirely indifferent to it and were going about returning to their things.

Cicero thought about the faery-girl, Critare, and how sad she looked.

He muttered to himself, "Now, nobody wants a sad, wing-plucked faery... No one ever wants something that's _broken_, don't you know? It would have been better for you if you were dead. Nobody will want you, _nobody_... You should be _dead_."

And she looked so sad, too, the little weeper.

Oh, how Cicero _hated_ her for it.

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_What do you guys think? This Cicero fan fiction is going to be pretty different compared to the other romances written for him out there. _

_Thank's for reading and_**_ please review!_**


	2. The Weepy Slave

_Thanks to everyone for their reviews!_

_I do have a response to a reviewer in the a/n under this chapter. (Normally, I would have pm-ed this sort of thing to a reviewer, but I didn't have the option this time.)_

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When Cicero had first seen Critare, he had thought she wept because she was such a tiny weakling, frightened and desperate for survival then. He had even written off her crying the first few days of her new life as a slave to just that- a mourning of her loss of freedom. But then the next day came, and she still wept. Then the next day, just the same. And by the next week, there was the weeping, _still_.

It turned out she was just a weakling, plain and simple. Cicero didn't like it when he guessed things wrong.

He was quite impressed by the amount she wept, though. He had spied on her, just to see if there was ever a time she _didn't_ cry. There were times- maybe two or three- when she might have not been crying, but after a month Cicero was finally sure that she was incapable of not-weeping. She cried when she worked, she cried when she ate, and she cried in her sleep. Cicero had even caught her crying while she was _laughing_ at something the little monster had said. It had marveled Cicero that one could cry _and_ laugh at the same instance. Her ceaseless crying was not truly bad, per se. At it's best times, it was just a pair of watery eyes which sparsely released tears. At the worst times- usually after being scolded by the not-Speaker, the weeping was a profuse flow accompanied by quiet sobs and small sniffles. Normally, the tears flowed from her face in waves, so to speak, with occasional hushed sobs or dainty sniffs. But no matter what form it came in, it was always quiet. Cicero frequently had to strain his ears in order to hear the wordless, whispering breaths for sobs that would leave her lips like sighs.

While the wood faery's talent to exude salty liquids from her eyes did impress Cicero somewhat, he found himself more annoyed by it. For starters, it was _far_ too quiet, which he found rude and obnoxious. But most of all, it was something that never failed to ruin his jolly mood. How could you laugh and jest or even dance when you had some pitiful wretch sheding buckets of tears? It spoiled _everything!_ Not to mention how she happened to be within the same structure as their Unholy Matron and still found reason to cry. The wench should have been singing and smiling, like Cicero- but _no!_

Cicero would never have thought it possible, but she actually made the apathy of those worthless sloths look _good_.

Speaking of whom; Cicero's fellow brothers and sisters found Critare's constant crying a nuisance as well. It made him smile knowing that her crying, while near silent, was just as unwelcome as his joking and laughter in this backwards place. There was more tolerance for her behavior than Cicero's, though. There _had_ to be of course- or who else would do all the cleaning and cooking... lazy swine. But her dancing was a different story.

She had this odd dance she'd do where she would balance herself upon her toes and tip-toe around with her arms out. Cicero wouldn't have known it was dancing if it weren't for how... admittedly graceful she was while doing it. Sometimes the tip-toes would become a balancing act on one toe while the other leg was kicked softly into the air at angles Cicero had not known a person could acheive. Other times she would leap or spin herself like a top- usually finishing the maneuvers by twisting herself into these odd poses. Cicero couldn't make any sense of it. Never the less, dancing while she worked annoyed the others- particularly the dog- so it was forbidden. Her tasteless dance seemed to be something of a habit though. So it wasn't until five days after the official prohibition when the mutt threatened to rip off her legs and eat them unless she stopped, that she managed to suppress her dance. Still, there were times when she would get on the tips of her toes before catching herself and then try to hide it by either quickly putting her heels back down or by pretending to be rising for something out of reach. Cicero did spy her in those secret moments where she would dance when she believed no one else was around to know.

Although the dancing was something that could be corrected, it had become clear to everybody that the weeping could not. The weeping was there to stay and many of them blamed it on a state of madness, something that had not occured to Cicero before. (He had found this weeping a perfectly complete definition of insanity and wrongly hoped that the others would _finally_ see how delightful a being he was.) But an excuse of insanity wasn't going to spare Critare all the redicule that came from the dark family she served or the beatings delivered by the Sloth Queen and her lap dog.

And she didn't have to cry to give the two a reason to beat her. They would frequently indulge themselves after their little lover's quarrels- and quite _generously,_ too. Funny, how the girl still seemed to make barely audible noises even when crying out in pain. Oh, it just wasn't _fair!_

Despite the crying and secretive dancing, the girl was ever obedient and submissive to the whim of her mistress, the not-Speaker.

Once she had the faery start her first day of labor, it seemed to suddenly dawn on her Foolishness just what kind of condition her shameful Sanctuary was in. So the first two weeks or so of the slave's service were dedicated to addressing the major problems of the cave: disposing of old books and other rubbish, dusting, sweeping the floors of rubble, removing sprouts in the cave corners where they were not wanted, scrubbing moss and mold out of the floor and walls, organizing, re-stuffing beds, polishing the tarnished silver and other metal items, rinsing out old bottles of mystery concoctions, and much more. During that time, that over-grown pup was also put to work repairing or rebuilding any damaged furniture and weapons they came across- something he was _thrilled _being bothered about. Critare would have been ordered to do these things, but it appeared she was not trusted enough for forges, fires and sharp things not for cooking, hammers, or being able to carry those heavy pieces of lumber.

But after those first two weeks, the slave finally had her routine planned out. Once the un-child woke her, the weeper would start her day by lighting the candles, stroking the fires, cooking breakfast, starting the forge, then cleaning the dishes. Once all these things were completed and approved of by her mistress, she'd then be allowed to eat what was left over from breakfast. Once done, Critare would wash then hang dirty laundry, dust, beat the rugs, and mend tattered fabrics before she was sent to cook mid-meal for the family. This was the one meal of the day Critare was allowed to eat before having to complete anything. After lunch she was property of the whole Sanctuary and required to work on any personal task given to her by the assassins. The reptile would usually want her to re-stuff and mend the dummies. The grey-snob normally would make the slave pluck and dye the feathers from her kills, which she then used to label arrows based on the poison she treated them with. That useless hound would command her to tan hides, clean the forge, and scrub soot from were ever it may have gotten. But it was the un-child who would require her most of all; usually needing her slave to help collect ingredients outside the Sanctuary with her during light hours, prepare them for potions and store or brew them. Critare would usually have time to only help one of them for so long before she was called by her mistress to sweep and mop the floors of three or four rooms, cook dinner, clean the dishes, remove dry laundry from the lines then fold and return them, and empty the chamber pots. Once all these things were done to the Pretender's satisfaction, she would then be allowed to eat the scraps left over from dinner. By about midnight, she would collapse onto her pile of hay in the lobby, bone-tired, where she would be chained until morning.

Cicero did not know how the little faery managed to keep up with all the work in the first place. She was just so small and weak-looking. And _how_ had she not been broken by any of those beatings yet? Quite curious... She was very thin and something told Cicero that she was already naturally that way. But starvation was definitly a factor in her size, for her thinness was too extreme to be natural. There was evidence of malnutrition in her bloated cheeks as well, which only served to make her round face _more_ round- like a baby. It irked Cicero. Between her small nose and chin and large round eyes, it was impossible to know how old she was. Her weakling behavior didn't help either. She was a young woman, that much was certain. Most likely somewhere just after her twentieth winter. And then her round eyes should have been made puffy and less round by all her crying, but it only seemed to make the circles under her eyes large... somehow making the eyes appear only _bigger_. Her lack of food also should have left her hair dull, brittle and sparse, too. Instead, her raven hair was full and black enough to make her skin, white like cattle milk, look even more pasty everywhere except the tips of her finger and toes where it took a violet hue due to pour circulation.

Right now, the girl was cleaning out the audience room where the Night Mother was placed as the Pretender had commanded her. Cicero had decided to stay in his lonely chamber while she did this, being as bored with watching her as he was. But it wasn't long before the jester began worrying. What if the faery girl did not clean the room to his sweet Matron's satisfaction? The Pretender gave instructions, but what did _she_ happen to know about the Night Mother? She hardly had enough knowledge about the Dark Brotherhood to know it was wise to _respect her Unholiness!_ Oh, this was bad. This was very, _very_ bad. Cicero had to hurry to the audience room and make sure things were done perfectly before that know-nothing slave ruined everything. He was the Keeper, after all. Wasn't it _his_ place tell that weeper how things ought to be where they concerned Mother? He had more authority than that not-Speaker,_ that Pretender!_

He made it into the audience room in time to catch the ignorant wench as she was just beginning to pry the coffin of the Night Mother open.

He bounded like a madman over to her, throwing her aside and turning to shut the door of the great coffin before she had opened it an inch.

He spun around, crouching protectively before Mother's coffin as he looked down at the woman he had cast to ground a moment ago. She looked up at him, eyes full of more fright than he had ever seen in them.

"_Do you know what you just could have done!_" he shouted manically.

"_Defiler! Blasphemer! Heretic! Cursed wretch_," he went on ranting as he reached down, yanking her up off the floor and seizing her arms in a bruising grip. Her whispered pleas were lost under his crazed shouts.

"How dare you open the coffin of our Holy Matron! I should cut you down where you stand!"

"I- I," Critare stammered quietly, "I'm sorry. A spider had gotten in, a mother, and-"

"_Liar!_" Cicero ripped the old broom she held from her grip before throwing it at the adjacent wall, where it broke with a loud snap.

He drew his dagger and twisted himself to swing it at her in a deadly arch, but she had already moved to avoid it. She ran from him, now that she was no longer being held onto. But he would not just let her flee. Cicero swung the dagger at her three more times, each only a touch away from slicing her as she fled. He chased her to the door leading out of the room where he let her escape, for now.

"_Never_ come back here! Never enter the Night Mother's presence, _ever again!_ Or I shall skin you alive!" He shouted.

Cicero watched her run down the hall, weeping profoundly, and out of his sight while he breathed manically, feeling his blood pound violently through his veins. This wasn't over and he was not going to forget what she had done, but the it was Mother who needed him more than any thing right now. She would have to wait for later.

He dropped his dagger and hurried back to Mother where he fell to his knees and embraced her coffin.

The jester rested his head against the stone cylinder and nervously stroked it.

"All is well, Mother... " he cooed almost breathlessly. "All is well. Cicero has protected you, he always protects you. Tell faithful Cicero; are you hurt? Are you worried still? Tell Cicero so he can know. He loves you, _forever_. Fear not, fear not. No one will ever harm you, Mother. No one..."

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_Because one of my reviewers had been very honest with me about their thoughts, I want to return that respect to them in this response:_

_I really never liked it when people would post complaints in story reviews about non-canon content they found and talk as if there were something wrong about it. It's what fan fiction is, so we should be okay with it for the sake of some creativity. My real problem with it was that those people didn't stop to question whether the break from canon had been intentional or not. _

_So yeah, the fact that Cicero didn't respond to Critare's mention of an "invisible lady" talking to her was intentional, not accidental. I did read his journals (before writing the story) and I do know he is looking for the Listener. But I also paid attention to his dialogue. And from it, I had pulled a few things from him (all still Cicero canon) that I made a bigger part of who he is and the motivations for why he does/doesn't do whatever he does in this story. I won't give away what those traits are now, though. So if you want to know what they are, you'll have to hang around for a little longer until they are brought to light within the story later on. (If you haven't already figured out what they are, that is.)_

_I hope I don't come across as snippy or as if I can't take feedback. I love hearing what anyone has to say to me and respect all opinions. I had chosen to acknowledge your review in this little a/n because A) I did sincerely respect your honesty and B) I felt that I owed you an explaination since it was something that... bothered you, I guess. I told you what my only issue had been above and now we're past it. All I'd like to ask is that from now on you consider what the intentions of an author are when you criticize. It would be fair to say that doing so is a crucial part of critical reviewing, right? _

_Another thank-you for your review and I hope you continue to enjoy the story. :)_

_Thanks for reading and **please review!**_


	3. Charm and Pity

_Ugh, before I get into what I really want to say to you guys, I just want to apologize for how late in the day this came. School's started this week, so updates are getting harder to keep up with. I didn't get to go over this chapter like I had with the previous two, so excuse any mistakes or poor wording you may find. I'm probably going to edit this one more time over the next week. Also, sorry for the length. (3,500 words! O-O)_

_This chapter is another long list of info ending with another Cicero-tantrum, but the ending will set into motion the rest of this story._

_Thanks to everyone for all of their reviews and fav/follows! You guys are great and all of your kind and supportive words have meant a lot to me. Since I've gotten so busy, I'll be putting off all my other stories for the time being until this one is completed. Updates come every Thursday._

_Thanks again, you guys! :)_

* * *

It had been only two months since the slave had infiltrated His Emptiness' final sanctuary, but since then things had changed greatly for her. For one, Critare's amount of work was reduced, somewhat. But that lesser quantity of work was traded for new tasks and assignments... as well as privileges.

It was all clear why, to Cicero. He knew that the only reason anything had changed at all for her was because she had so cleverly beguiled everyone. Got them thinking she must be as precious and fragile as fine Argonian porcelain. Oh dear, they were all good and charmed by her false sweetness and soft obedience. Pitying her with her shabby crocodiles' tears. _Foolishness_. It was foolishness, all of it. Cicero didn't even know why he stood for it in his Sanctuary.

The Pretender and her pet were the only ones other than Cicero who had not seemed to have any change of heart over the weeper. Whatever troubles or vexations were on the whore's mind would be tallied in brusies on the servant's back before long. Yet, no matter how many times the slave was threatened with abandonment or burial by her mistress, Cicero knew all too well that neither were ever going to happen. The not-Speaker was far, _far_ too in love with the whole thing to let it go. The mere ownership of a slave bolstered her ego. It was a novelty, a trophy, a badge of authority. No, she certainly was not going to let go of her prize, not when it fed her little fantasy of queendom.

It was quite clear that the dog still loathed the woman with every hair of his shifting hide. Cicero remembered finding the two together while out for a stroll. The dog was holding the slave fiercely by the hair and while looking to Cicero as if he was in a hurry to silence what little noises she was making before they could be heard by someone. Cicero could not guess why, though. She was covered head-to-toe with fresh bruises, likely from a recent beating, and had the look of someone desperately trying to hold back tears.

"Quiet! Quiet, _now!_" he commanded her lowly. "Stop that crying! Astrid isn't going to hear anything about this, do you hear me? If you tell her anything- one little thing- I'll roast you in my forge and sell your charred ass as dog meat to some poor butcher in the city! _Are we clear?!_"

The little weeper had nodded quietly. After that she had avoided the dog when she could and, oddly enough, did not leave the Sanctuary unless ordered to for the next two weeks.

But everyone else, all of Her Foolishness' lackeys, had changed their minds about Critare. Mostly for the better.

Before, Long-ears had gone about ignoring the weeper. She would send a glare her way after she had stayed in the same room as her, crying, for long enough. Now, when she wasn't ignoring Critare, as she still did for the most part, she was laughing at her. The snob always found her good for a bit of amusing conversation. She never out-right mocked her- in fact, knowing the way she acted, it was hard to tell why she spoke to the slave at all. Cicero guessed that it had something to do with her pompous, smug grey-snob ego. Perhaps, the Pretender was not the only one who had received an unrealistic boost in self-importance from the slave.

The dark skinned kill-joy had changed considerably. He had never been able to put up with the weeper's weeping for long before snapping at her to get out or leaving the room himself. After that first month, the man had showed signs of softening up to her. She had gotten that worthless sack of fluff under her spell. All she really had to do was cry and feign insecurity whenever she was told to leave the room or stop that ridiculous crying. Then he'd look so _guilty_ and would uneasily try to soothe her. He'd try doing other small things to ease his guilt, like skipping meals so she'd have more to eat or cleaning little drops of blood off the floors when he tracked it in for any odd reason. He was just a big, soft, spineless, _softy_.

The wizard was still as cranky and moody as always, only now he tried to practice patience with the weeper. Only the weeper. She was the only one in the Sanctuary who listened to his long, winded rambles about the Dark Ages, the glory days of the Brotherhood, and his rants about the way things were now. When the geezer was done, the slave would look at him for a moment as if she hardly understood a word he had said. She probably didn't. But the fact that she was the only one who listened to him, gave him the idea that she cared about what he said, was the only reason he would apologize after exploding at her or try to control the impulse to yell when she arranged his things wrongly.

Scales had taken quite a liking to her. Like long-ears, he had just ignored her the first month or so. By now, he was having long, seemingly casual conversations with the slave. But when they spoke, they both did so in their usual low voices and so made it impossible for Cicero to know what they spoke of. While it sure did seem like greenie enjoyed his little talks with the slave, he appeared to have motives for it that went beyond friendly conversation. Those motives became quite clear once you observed how at ease he was making contact with her. And he always looked at her with some possessive appraisal. It made Cicero _sick_ to know that any sane, living person could actually want someone as pathetic and foolish as her- while _he_ was treated like some leperous pariah! _Sickening!_

It was the little monster, though, that was the worst of them all. When she wasn't having her slave help with blasted potions and brews, it was hair-dressing and tea-parties. _Tea-parties?_ Honestly, this place had reached a new low. When Cicero had first arrived, the bar had been set so low, he was shocked to see they found a way under it! The puny un-child would never admit it, but Cicero knew she enjoyed all the pampering even if she acted annoyed when her slave-nanny offered. She simply adored the attention- something which couldn't be sucked out of anyone else. Cicero still wasn't sure whether it was belief in the monster's harmless pretence or the excuse to get out of normal chores that left the slave so willing to cater to the shrimp. Either way, the whole thing bothered Cicero to no end and just went to reinforce his conviction that the whole lot of the Sanctuary, deep down, had no real love for Sithis. The whole world believed the Dark Brotherhood was extinct, and that Pretender was allowing them to spend their time _playing_.

Just recently the un-child had asked the weeper to make her a dress- as if she had needed one. It had actually been quite a laugh.

There was the little monster, standing on a stool while the slave worked around her, obeying instructions as she had no idea how to go about dress-making.

"We should make a dress for you too, Critare," the monster had said.

The weeper just shook her head and whispered some sort of disagreement.

"Oh, _come on_. I'll help you and you could finally get rid of that old black dress."

The skeletal creature shook her head again. "No, I like my dress. I don't want a new one."

"Are you sure-"

"Yes. I'm sure, Babette."

"Okay, okay. _Sheesh!_ No need to cry about it. I'm sorry."

The obsession the girl seemed to have with her old, thread-bare, black dress was an odd one indeed. She never took it off, _ever_- not even to bath or wash it. According to what she told the un-child, she just washed it when she bathed. She took good care of it too. In how ever many years she had owned it she had only ever cut it thrice, as the few lines of fine stitches told. She never patched it, but would only use black thread to repair it for some reason. And oddly enough, it was the only thing she would wear. No shoes, no hats, no gloves, _nothing_. Not even for cold weather. Cicero did not know how she managed it, much less why she insisted upon the habit. But, he supposed, you couldn't expect anything sensible from a mad woman.

The dress was the only thing she owned other than that doll. A few weeks ago she had started acting quite oddly around her little bed of hay. She became extremely hesitant when anyone came close to it and would try to shield it at certain times. She had been hiding something, obviously. It took only a week for the not-Speaker to figure that out. And when she did, she had forced the weeper to show her what it was. Whatever it was the whore had been expecting, the expression of surprise and irritation written on her face made it clear that a child's toy had not been it. The weeper came clean then, telling her mistress everything. She had found the doll, alone, while outside of the Sanctuary and hid it because she thought that the Pretender wouldn't allow her to keep it. She swore over and over again that she did not steal it and that when she had found it, their was no one else near which could have been the doll's possible owner. It was a lost toy. She begged her mistress to allow her to keep the baby doll more fiercely than she had even begged her for mercy after Cicero had attempted to end her for her crime against the Night Mother. When her request was granted the slave embraced her mistress and thanked her tearfully before holding the doll close to her as if it was her own child. _Pfft!_ And not even after the whole doll fiasco did those buffoons around the Sanctuary realize the normalcy of Cicero's relationship with dear Mother. It was justifiable, perfectly reasonable even. She was the _Night Mother_, after all- not some average corpse. But no, _no!_ Cicero was still the only strange one there!

The weeper's work load had lightened in some ways as her relationships with the not-Speaker's minions improved. For instance, the slave now only swept and washed the floors at a given time of the week while still tending to certain messes when they occurred. For the most part, the time she didn't spend repeating old chores was now directed at new responsibilities. With the new-found trust she had in her slave, the Pretender had given Critare the privilages to leave the Sanctuary for leisure while additionally tasking her with running trips to the market. Because they were all such a sloppy, lousy excuse for servants of Sithis, the lackeys evidently had reasons to worry about "being recognized" while out in public. So until recently, from what Cicero had gathered, when it came to acquiring necessities, the bunch would have to rely on spending what little income they had with the few fences they had connections to in other cities. The system was limited, of course. And even though they were all a disgrace to the Brotherhood, they at least were above reducing the guild to a reputation of common bandits by looting the bodies and homes of those they killed. So they followed the Pretender's rule to never loot a kill or their home.

But now, with the slave, they did not need to continue their miserable diet of old fruit leathers and bear meats hauled in by the dog. Now they could finally spend contract gold in the neighboring city were they could get fresh cabbages and chicken eggs and bread, even candles, ingots, and paper. The not-Speaker had made sure the softy taught the weeper to handle the septims and that the wizard and scales taught her how to defend herself with magic tricks and a little knife if it was necessary when she made her trips.  
Cicero had tried making his own trips to the market. A few days after the foolish weeper had opened the Night Mother's coffin, the jester had left to visit Falkreath so he could replenish Mother's special blend of oil. Mother was going to be due for an oiling soon, and faithful Cicero wanted to be prepared ahead of time.

_"I'm sorry... sir. We don't have any of what you're looking for here." the grave-priest had told him._

_"Oh, don't be silly with Cicero now," he had answered, giggling. "You have the blend his mother needs, you're the _priest_ afterall. I know what you want; just a little bit more gold from Cicero to sweeten the deal, _hmm?_ Cicero will pay anything, really. Just test him."_

_"Er... You know that sort of oil is for... dead people, do you?"_

_"Yes, Cicero does."_

_"Oh. Well... Cicero, it's not that I won't sell it... I just don't have it here. I use only use a few specific brews for embalming here, and all of them I make myself. I don't have what you're looking for. But I could give you some of my own oils... I won't charge you for them."_

_"No, no, no..." Cicero had sighed as he left._

He went to the general trader to see if he had Mother's oil, but no. It was the same with everyone else in this cluster of huts for a city.

He had come back two days later to see if any happened to have the blend, then. He had never gotten the chance though. As soon as he was seen, the merchants that knew him at immediately closed shop. They refused to sell to him. And it had taken him three weeks to finally accept that they never would.

He had been reduced to petitioning the Pretender with a request for a way to get more oil. He loathed doing it, but refused to let that stop him. It was for Mother, and he would do anything for Mother. That whore had denied, though. Acquiring such a rare oil was going to be a difficulty and oil for the Night Mother was just not at the top of their priorities, apparently. A few weeks later, she gets the idea to have the slave run all the errands. Cicero had chosen that moment to once again remind the not-Speaker about the dire situation of Mother's oil.

"Don't you understand, _Astrid_," he had said as kindly as he could manage with her. "Mother requires a certain oil if her skin is to stay so lovely and fresh. Other oils might discolor Mother's precious skin and fail to moisten it properly. It has already been so long you see, a month. Mother will be needing her oil soon, before damage occurs."

Her Foolishness had just smirked at him and told him that she would have the slave look into it. After another patient week, he had _reminded_ her again. And again she smirked at him and said that the slave had already made an order for it with the Falkreath Trader. _But_ that there was no way of knowing when it would arrive.

Over those next two weeks, Cicero had been nervously looking for a gift to present Mother with when he was finally able to open her coffin and fulfill her duties as Keeper. Just something to make amends for how far behind he had come with his responsibilities. It was proving... _difficult_.

He wouldn't make her a new song, or dance, or sharpen her a new dagger as he had already given her dozens of each. No, something more special was needed. He had tried baking, but the loaves, what sad excuses they were, spoiled while they had waited. After his third attempt went to waste, the others had forbid him from wasting anymore flour. He could not embroider fabric or whittle wood, so gifts of that sort were out of the question. He had tried visiting the market again to search for something suitable- a babble or trinket perhaps- but was discouraged from even trying the moment he arrived. How could he forget? No one in the village would be seen doing business with him.  
So it would be flowers, then. A big, pretty bouquet that he would keep fresh for weeks with potions from the un-child's stash. The only problem- _ho, and there always had to be a problem_- was that there were no flowers! Not in the Sanctuary. Not outside it. Not for the next surrounding mile, Cicero wouldn't be surprised.

He knew what happened to them, too. They had all been picked by that weeper and woven into little flower crowns placed in the un-child's hair. They were picked and either cut up and bottled away as raw ingredients or brewed into tinctures sold to the city apothecary.

Cicero had being searching for several hours now, looking for flowers and had found little more than a handful of bulbs and buds. And he had had enough of it.

He screamed and uprooted a bush of nightshade. He turned around and stormed back to the Sanctuary, a force of nature in his fury.

When he found her, she was in the dining area, working on supper for the lackeys.

"_You!_" he roared.

The weeper jumped and spun around, watching him fearfully.

"Do you see what you've done, now!" he yelled, shaking a fist full of flower buds at her.

The weeper shook her head at him, tearful already.

"Alright, what is it _now_, you insufferable fool?" the wizard snapped, tiredly rubbing his eyes as he walked in.

"What is it?" he repeated. "What it _is_ is this useless wretch spoiling everything! She's picked all the flowers to be had and now there's nothing left for Mother!"

"Flowers, Cicero. _Really?_" The un-child rolled her eyes.

"When did you get in here?" the old one asked.

The little monster ignored him, focusing instead on Cicero.

"Last time you were going to kill her just because she opened some lady's coffin-"

"_Some lady?_ The Night Mother! The Unholy-"

"Matron of the Brotherhood! Yeah, I get it."

"No! No, you _don't!_"

The wizard spoke up, "Wait, wait. I'm lost. Is this about flowers or that blasted corpse? Can someone tell me, please?"

"Look, Cicero. We have no flowers. I'm sorry, but if you wanna' blame anyone, blame me for it. I was the one using them to make all those potions. Not Critare."

"What's happening?" Scales asked lowly, just walking in on the whole scene.

"The clown's having another meltdown," the wizard muttered to him.

Scales nodded, "What happened this time?"

"I don't know. This is either about flowers or the Night Mother, but no one will really tell me which it is."

"Hmm."

"This isn't about flowers or the Night Mother," the little monster answered them. "This is about Cicero. And _only_ Cicero!" She spun on her heel and put her hands on her hips, glaring at Cicero.

"I don't know what your issue is with her, but you need to get _over_ yourself! She's done nothing wrong to you!"

Cicero clenched his fists. "My issue? Look at her, she's-"

"Babette is right," the wizard interrupted. "You've been nothing but a bully to that girl since she got here and it's going to stop now."

"No one's going to tolerate this anymore," greenie said cooly.

Cicero stomped his feet and screamed.

"_Oh!_ None of you like Cicero or his jokes or singing! Or his _hat! None of you!_ But he doesn't care! He wants _nothing_ to do with any of you worthless milksops!"

Cicero stormed out of the room, furious.

Once he was in his quarters, he let out another roar and kicked a leg out from under his shoddy table. He moved on to the chair, throwing it at a wall. He swung around, hooking his hands under the frame of his bed in a fast grip. With one sudden thrust of the arms, he flipped the whole structure over, screaming.

* * *

_Thanks for reading and **please review!**_


	4. Missing the Wood Faery

_So this past week and-a-half have been pretty demanding of me, both academically and personally. Still, I'm really sorry for how late this update is. I just want you all to know though, that there wasn't a day during this past week that I didn't think and worry about you all and this story._

_Thanks to everybody for being so patient!_

_Now I wrote and proof read this chapter twice over the course of two days. I like to take a little longer on these things, so forgive me if it's not my most quality update._

* * *

"It makes no difference. A blade is far more silent than a jet of fire any day."

"Noise is irrelevant. Any practiced mage such as myself can create an explosion while keeping it as quiet as any old knife, _boy_."

"_Ooh_, Cicero remembers the days from before he was Keeper. He had many, many fun ways to kill secretly. So _fun_, so _clever_. Do any of Cicero's brothers want to hear one?"

Scales, softy, and the fussy wizard ignored Cicero. The jester went on nibbling his loaf of bread as he continued to watch them, eyes bright with interest, from where he sat on the dining area throne. Oh, how he loved a good talk about killing!

"Maybe a magic gout of fire can be made silent," softy said, "but I doubt it'll do much to quell the screams from its mark."

Greeny twitched his tail, "And then there is the case of the odor and heat. Those could alert someone as well."

"They're really goo-_ood!_" Cicero sang, throwing it out there and waiting again.

"Hmpf. This is exactly my point. If you fools ever took your gazes off your lack-luster razors and pointed sticks and expanded your horizons to the arcane, you would know that there are ways to keep your mark silent or even unconscious. Find me a sword that can do _that!_"

"Then you do more than what is needed, yes?"

"How typical for one your age! You young people are too afraid of a little extra work. Even if it's for acquiring more spectacular means to complete contracts! No, you're all too impressed with knife work. Where's the craft in that?"

Cicero sighed and unfolded his crossed legs so he could step down from the aged throne. He bit a peice off the loaf and chewed as he left the room, climbing the wooden ramp leading to the bunks.

"Cicero misses the days when he used to kill..." he muttered through a mouth of food.

He passed through the bunks, wanting the open space the next room- the one which led to the lobby- provided. He continued muttering as he went on, "... not so bad, really... still gets to kill sometimes... when fools try to-"

He gasped excitedly, feeling a new rhyme forming on his lips.

"_Cicero can't join_

_The others to play_

_When his family_

_Is summoned to slay._

_But he still gets to kill_

_and he still gets to parry_

_those who dare trifle with_

_his sweet Matron a-_"

Cicero collided with the little monster just then, being as he had been paying more attention to his rhyme than where he went. He stepped back and waited for something to happen. But the un-child only smoothed out her skirt and went back to walking, her gaze fixed solidly on the opening leading to the lobby.

Cicero shrugged and seated himself at the nearby table which he placed his bread on. The loaf was awfully old, tasteless, and stale making it easy for him to crush it into a mess of crumbs with his fingers as he did now. This was the table he came to often for meal times and it already bore several large cratters dug into the wood by his dagger, one of his boredom habits.

The other Sanctuary members had taken to ignoring him _religiously_ ever since he had shouted at Critare the day before for taking the all the flowers. Hmpf, with the way they acted you would have thought he had killed her. Not that he hadn't planned to- but it wasn't as if they had never treated him differently when did anything. It was always, "_no, no, Cicero, no more taking the flour_" and "_no, Cicero, you can't pry holes in the table anymore_" and "_no more Cicero at the table for meals, it's too annoying and we just want some peace!_"

Cicero clenched his fist crushing the remainder of the loaf into peices.

Cicero grumbled, "_Peace_, pfft... they have _peace_ everyday... place is so quiet and dull... Don't know how they never get enough..."

But it was no matter, no matter at all. Not to Cicero, _no_. They were all too boring and plain for him anyways.

He relaxed his grip and used the fingers on that same hand to brush off the crumbs still sticking to his glove.

"Sword play is a deadly craft,_ old one_," greeny said. "An ancient dance of life and death. An art of passionate fury and cool serenity. I would not expect you to understand... knowing you have never touched a weapon."

"You're back, _already?_" Cicero heard the little monster say somewhere in the lobby. Her voice was quieted from the distance and what probably was the sound of the dog hammering hides for a new set of armor he would ruin five days from now.

Cicero heard the big softy speak in the dining room then, "We're not saying there's anything wrong with magic, Festus. We just would appreciate some respect for the way we like to do things, because we are exceptionally good with them..."

The sound of the mutt grunting came from the lobby.

"Yeah. I'm back," he said. "And what's this 'already' shit? I had been out for almost seven hours, pip-squeak."

"... Gabriella likes her bow and poisons, mostly because she really enjoys that rush you get in being searched for and not found while picking off large groups..."

"No luck?" the un-child asked.

"I hate dumb questions."

There was a pause from the lobby as softy went on, "... Arnbjorn and Babette use their natural gifts because they prefer the thrill of the chase. Veezara and I use swords for the thrill of the fight. You like magic, it seems for the spectacle..."

"... So, it's a 'no', then?" the un-child asked, sounding confused.

The lap-dog groaned and the repetitive sound of hammer-smacking-leather ceased.

"Look, pig's feet. I got an intense migraine right n- get that the fuck out of my face- _now_."

"You always have a _migraine_ whenever someone talks to you, so just shut up and drink it. Hammering stuff isn't good for a head-ache either, in case you didn't know."

"... Which is not so different from how Astrid used to be when she was still out in the field, when you think about it. She just loved seeing how that huge pool of blood spread over the floor with just one flick of a dagger."

Cicero slumped in his chair and threw his head back, groaning dramatically. Such boring, _boring_ conversations!

"Can't you bug Astrid, right now?"

"What about me?" the Pretender's voice carried from the lobby.

"Arnbjorn didn't find Critare."

Cicero rolled his eyes. Oh, of course. No wonder they were making such a big deal about it; not when it was about_ the weeper_.

"And yet you came back?" he heard the Pretender say with cool accusation.

"Are you two honestly going to try lecturing me? And on killing?" the wizard puffed.

"I have been out since early this morning, _dear_," the doggy bit back.

"And?"

The low sound of the dog growling- really growling- carried into Cicero's meal-room.

"Have you checked the Sanctuary for her, Babette?"

The un-child sighed, "Yes, Astrid, I checked. And I can check again as many times as you like. It's not going to change the fact that she's missing somewhere outside the Sanctuary."

Scales started to say something in the other room, but Cicero was no longer listening to that conversation.

That dreadful weeper was _missing?_ Cicero beemed, making a short squeak of joy. He crept to the side of the door-like opening to the lobby, crouching down and listening keenly to the others as small, excited giggles escaped him. He prayed to Sithis, by all his power and wrath, that the slave was dead.

_Dead and gone, dead and gone_, his mind chanted

"She's not in here; I could have told you that." said the dog.

Cicero could envision it as Her Foolishness slowly turned her head to look at her pet.

She replied in a tone which was low and cold, "I don't know, Arnbjorn. Could you? It seems as if some things have been slipping past you lately, _my sweet_."

"Bitch. I told you I don't know how she got past me. What about you, Astrid? You're her mistress or whatever the hell. Isn't your decision whether or not to chain her up every night so she doesn't, say, _run off?_"

The blood-drinker cleared her throat loudly and said, "I think it's pretty clear that Critare had left early in the morning, when it was still dark out."

Astrid replied, "That doesn't change the fact that she left without telling or asking me or anyone else!"

"It must have been because she didn't want to bother anyone by waking them. You know how she is."

"You really don't think she didn't just make her great escape?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Well, since nobody's seen her or was told where she went, I say it's-"

"I didn't say that nobody knows where she is."

"You mean you haven't asked them." It wasn't a question.

"No, I haven't."

"Are you telling me that in the seven hours I had spent covering miles on foot- in the hot ass summer rain, you hadn't bothered asking one person if they had any idea where that tooth-pick went?!" the dog barked.

"Chill out, grey. It's not like it would have changed the fact you were still out there- during the day, thank you."

"Let's just see if they know anything," the Pretender sighed. She called in scales, softy, and the old coot who all apparently took the quicker route from the kitchen to the lobby, so Cicero did not have to move from his opening to stay hidden.

"What's this about, Astrid?" the wizard asked. "Arnbjorn hasn't attacked another villager again, has he?"

"I have, but this isn't about that."

"This is about Critare," the Pretender said.

There was a short silent pause.

"What about her?" said the softy.

"Do any of you happen to know where she is, or what she's doing?"

Another pause. They all mumbled "no's" lowly.

_Deadandgonedeadandgonedeadandgonedeadandgone_...

There was another, Cicero sensed, uncomfortable silence, until the softy said, "Why do you ask?"

"I ask because it would seem that Critare has gone missing and no one has the slightest hint as to where she is nor was Arnbjorn able to find her after searching for hours. Now I'm going to ask you all again: do any of you have any clue where she is or might have gone?"

Cicero rolled his eyes. How like the Pretender to use fear as her scepter of authority. It was so un-authentic, so unlike Mother and the real Listeners and Speakers. They stemmed all their power simply from the respect their leadership merited. This Not-Speaker was no _real_ leader of the Brotherhood.

The wizard spoke, "Come now, Astrid. Don't be foolish; you know that if we knew where she was we would tell you."

"I can't be too sure of that anymore, Festus. You've all been getting awfully attached to her. I wouldn't be surprised if one of you had forgot that she is _my_ property."

Cicero rolled his eyes once again and had to bite back a scoff. Stupid, stupid Pretender didn't want to admit that the Brotherhood never kept slaves. The family kept prisoners, oh, yes- but only as long as they were needed for extracting information! He couldn't _count_ the amount of times he had argued with her over this.

The un-child spoke up, something on the edge of sarcasm in her voice, "Please, Astrid. I have her make me dresses and play house with me. If I were to just let her go, who would I have then to do all that stuff with- _Flees-and-Ticks over here?_"

"Not even if my dick was going to get chewed off by a bear otherwise, runt."

"_Eww_."

The sound of big-and-soft loudly clearing his throat resonated throughout the large room before he spoke.

"Look, if we are going to figure out where Critare is, we are going to need to pull together and figure it out. If escaping us is what she has done, then we need to find her before some guard or authority does- and is possibly told about where she has been kept the past few months. Now, how long has she been gone, exactly?"

"We can't really be all too sure," the little monster answered. "When I went to go wake her this morning, she wasn't there. And I did see her to bed last night, too. I swear I didn't hear or see or even smell anything whenever she had left."

"Did you sleep at all last night?" the Pretender questioned.

"No. Instead I was working on my own personal projects, so I was all over the Sanctuary last night, like usual."

"So why didn't you bother checking on her every so often?!" that not-Speaker bit cooly.

"_Because_, Astrid, I had done that the first few nights you started leaving her unchained. But after a while, I was convinced she was never going to try running off, so I stopped. My mistake, _I'm sorry_. Sue me! Just don't act as if Arnbjorn wasn't sleeping by his forge the whole stupid night! Or that she didn't have to pass your room to leave, either. _Sheesh!_"

Cicero snickered. No, doggy definitely wouldn't know it if the weeper was ever sneaking away at night. He was a _very_ deep sleeper, Cicero knew. On the nights when he couldn't sleep, one of the jester's favorite ways to pass the time had been a little game he like to call "don't let the sleeping dog lie, when you see him and he's sleeping." He would usually tickle his face with feathers or barbed wires, depending on his mood, until the mutt started swatting at the air. When Cicero was feeling really adventurous- which was all the time- he'd do things like kicking the dog in the rump or braiding his hair or scraping his nails on rough slate or something like dancing and singing about the dog-eat-dog world atop his resting forge. He never woke, even on _those_ occasions. The game was murderously fun but only worked provided the dog was sleeping by the forge after getting kicked out of his mistress' bed room as a result of one of their little fights.

"When she wasn't in bed," the un-child went on, "I had just assumed she had already gotten up and made an early start on her chores- which she has done in the past. I started looking for her to ask if she had time to dress my hair, but I couldn't find her. That's when I went to Astrid."

"Wait, couldn't that little nose of yours just have told you right away that she had left the Sanctuary?" asked the wizard.

"It's not as simple as that, Festus. There's a certain point when a trail gets old. And once it's goes old, you can't really tell if it's older or fresher than another "old" trail which was made a few hours before, for example. Old scents are fine and as good to follow as any new one when it's a simple, straight-forward trail that never or rarely over-laps itself, but sooner or later it'll get so tangled up, you can't make heads or tails of anything.

"And I don't know if you've noticed, but Critare has been all over this Sanctuary- I think that Liz's room is the only exception. Her scent is so ingrained in to it, that there is just not a trail to follow- as is the case with everyone else's here. I mean, come on! She does everyone's laundry and has to clean everybody's chamber pots! Small traces of her scent are on all of us now just as much as ours' are on her.

"That's why I think she must have left a number of hours before I discovered she was missing, at the very least. By now she has been outside of the Sanctuary somewhere around twelve hours."

"Well, why couldn't you start looking for her yourself when you saw she was gone?" the wizard asked.

The un-child sighed, "I know you can't do much on that bum leg of yours, but you could at least try getting out of the Sanctuary every now and then. It's summer, you old wind-bag. It means the days start earlier and last longer, and incase you weren't aware- me: _sanguine vampiris!_ By the time I realized she was outside, the sun was out and _singeing._"

Someone must have been about to ask another question, because the Pretender suddenly hissed, "Enough! We're wasting time we need to find our little run-away."

"Hey, I _never_ said she ran away."

"How can you be so sure of that, Babette? You've only known her for a few months."

"Maybe, but something like that would be really unlike her. She's too obedient, too unimaginative, too... afraid of us all."

"I agree with Babette," greeny said. "Trying to escape her bondage is not something she's likely to ever do."

There was a murmur of agreement from the old one and the softy.

The not-Speaker spoke, "So what do you think; she went for a stroll and got lost?"

"No," scales answered, "she know's this area too well. Think about it: has she ever taken too long to get back to us whenever she went to the market?"

The un-child, "Uhh..."

"What?!" the Pretender snapped.

"Well, there's a chance she might have this time- some how..."

"You think that because..."

"Because... Critare had taken her satchel and basket."

The lap-dog snorted, "And we're just supposed to believe she didn't make her great escape!"

"She didn't run-off!"

"Well, I'm having a hard time believing it, pip-sqeak! Unless she-"

The dog abruptly stopped for a moment.

"Unless," he said again, more quietly this time.

"_No_," the Pretender said, quietly as well. "You don't think, do you?"

Think? Think _what?_ Ugh, Cicero hated it when he didn't know what was going on!

"I don't know," the doggy said. "But I wouldn't be surprised in the least if he did."

"Who did what?" the un-child asked. "What are you guys talking about?"

The Pretender ignored her question.

"Cicero!" she called tersely.

_Oh!_ So that was why!

Giggling, the jester poked his head into the opening, where it would be visible to his 'brothers and sisters'.

"_Yes?_" he asked innocently before bursting into giggles again.

"Get in here!" she hissed.

"_Why_, whatever is going on?"

Another fit of giggles. He was in a very, very good mood. The weeper was missing. It was the best news since he had moved sweet Mother to this "Sanctuary".

"I'm not in the mood for games, Cicero."

"Games? But Cicero is a serious fellow. Serious as _death_," he chuckled.

"Knock it off, clown. I'm going to ask you only once, and you had best not lie to me: do you happen to know where Critare is?"

"Ah, the broken wood faery," Cicero feigned thoughtful consideration, tapping his chin. "Hmm... Let Cicero think for a moment... No, he does not know where she is. Sadly, he isn't _her_ Keeper. Why do you ask? Is she _missing?_"

"You do know something, don't you."

Cicero gasped, "You accuse faithful Cicero!"

The un-child sighed, "Signs point to 'no', Astrid."

"What?" she turned to her.

"He doesn't look like he's lying... slimy jerk."

"For his sake, he'd better hope he's not.

"Alright everyone, whether or not Critare has ran away- or been removed," she threw a look at Cicero, "is irrelevant. What matters is that she will be brought back here where she belongs. We don't let our marks get away once we have accepted our contracts and we don't let what we own get stolen- or leave. Not without punishment.

"Festus. Babette. You two are going to stay here for now. Atleast until night if the rest of us have no luck, Babette. Arnbjorn- you're going to search south for her. Figure out if she tried to flee past the border- or is planning to. I'm going to take my horse and search west. Nazir- I want you to search north of here."

She turned to Cicero, "_You_- will go east and see if she's either still in, or just passed through, Falkreath. Ask around, see if anyone had noticed which direction she left the city or if she had spoken about any places- anywhere which interested her- while there. Did she take roads or leave the into the woods? Did she leave on foot or carriage? You get the idea, hopefully."

"Er, yes. _About that_. As much as Cicero would like to help a not-Speaker find her precious slave- he won't!"

"Oh, yes you will."

The Pretender smiled that smile that always made Cicero want to _stab, stab, stab-_

"You're going to help find her because you're going to need her if you are ever going to get that ridiculous blend of oil for your Mother. No one else here can get it for you. Unless you're suddenly confident you can obtain it yourself?"

Cicero grit his teeth tightly, his whole body tensing with anger. His good mood had officially been spoiled.

~[•|0|•]~

"Weeper. Oh, _little weeper_, where are you?" Cicero called in an indoor tone as he clapped his hands together, looking about the woods.

_Oh, it was no use_, he thought. _She was never going to turn up!_

Cicero crashed onto a rock, deciding he deserved it after one, two, three... Cicero couldn't tell how many hours now, but they had been many. And all he had done was search and search and search.

He laid himself comfortably on the rock, rolling over once to get himself over the shaded half. He pulled off his hat and wiped the sweat from his face. His hair was already soaked and his whole face ran with beads of it, some streaming into his eyes.

Summer in Skyrim was not considerably hot, no matter which hold you observed it in, and the case held true on this day. But the level of humidity in the air, which was so common to the hold, left Cicero feeling as though he could melt.

His attire did not help the matter at all. While it had been patched from wear in some areas, his beloved jester's clothing had been composed of layers of velvet and damask. While decent for colder temperatures, neither material was known for being light and breathable. Cicero was positively miserable right now.

He was hot, thirsty, and simply exhausted by the heat. And his feet ached so bad. He tried mumbling a few complaints to them, but was not even in the mood to make a joke. And to think that hours earlier he had been inventing scenarios in which the weeper could have died. Now, as much as he knew he needed the slave to be alive, he couldn't help himself. He had fantasized that she could have been picked aparted little by little by angry black birds, gotten herself sawed in-half at a mill when she laid down for a nap, tripped on a dagger, run over by a horse she fell off, or walked herself off a very tall cliff. Which ever it was, he had hoped he could see what was left for his own amusement. But by now, all he wished was that she could turn up alive and he could take her back so he could get his oil and be done with it.

Cicero had been wanting to avoid it, but after the first two hours of his searching he had finally decided that it had been time to pay a visit to the city.

As soon as he appeared, he could feel the guards eyeing him and the mothers calling their children closer as they always did. He had skipped from one guard to the next, asking if any had seen the weeper. It was the same answer from each of them, they didn't see her. But Cicero could tell they were lying to him. Cicero tried asking the little children of Falkreath- little children can never keep a secret- but all had ran away the moment they saw him coming to them. He had no idea why. All he had done was sing his song about his pet rat when one of them had shown him their little kitty the last time he had seen them. The girl had ran home crying for some reason. Cicero guessed that some people just didn't have a sense of humor.

What was important was that the weeper had passed through the city. But where she went was the question.

So Cicero had no choice but to keep searching. The dog had said that he had lost her trail at the river, so Cicero could only hope that she would be somewhere along it. It only took about a half hour after he had picked himself up from his resting place and continued searching that his inference proved correct.

He had just been trooping along the banks when he had heard the voice of a stranger beyond some thicket. Normally he wouldn't- couldn't- kill unless it was necessary to protect Mother, but he was bored and in the wilderness. Who was ever going to know if Cicero took a moment to have just a tiny peep fun?

He crept through the brush, taking care not to rattle any branch enough to call attention to himself. He was successful and surprised to see what lie ahead of him as he hid in he foliage.

About ten meters or so away, was the source of the voice he heard: a silly mage man about as old as jolly Cicero. He was yelling up at something in some tree... Cicero followed the line of the man's gaze. He- he was yelling at her- the weeper! The foolish creature was hugging the tree trunk from high up, trying to keep her misshapen feet from slipping off the narrow branch- one which hung over the river.

She weakly shook her head at something the mage-man said as she looked down at him.

"I'm giving you one last warning, whore! Give me your belongings and live or I'll be prying them from your cold, dead fingers!"

"Go away, please." she said quietly, even politely.

"Have it your way, then," the mage-or-bandit laughed before spraying her with a shower of frost.

Cicero sighed. He guessed he was going to have to do something about the situation now.

"Cicero hates doing everything himself," he muttered as he crept out of the brush.

An end of a branch caught his hat as Cicero went foward, snagging it off his head. He paid no mind to it now though. He could always retrieve it later. He swiftly closed the distance between himself and the man before slicing his throat.

"Bet _that_ took you by surprise!" he chuckled to the corpse.

He only had taken a moment more to relish his kill before he heard a loud splash to the side of him.

Cicero groaned, rolling his eyes.

"Now is not the time for _swimming_, foolish weeper! Don't you understand that?!"

He waited a moment for a reply. But after long enough, without a head emerging out of the water, it finally dawned on Cicero that she might not be in any condition to swim after being sprayed by frost- if she knew how to swim at all.

"Why did she have to fall in the _river?_" he whined while quickly retriving his hat, wincing when he heard it rip off the branch. "Why not fall on to a sabercat or a bear? They're soft and won't kill you- if you run fast enough."

Cicero tucked his torn hat into his belt and ventured into the water, alarmed by the force of the current. How was he going to find the weeper now? He stuck his head under the water, search but seeing nothing more than fish.

He was running out of time.

He used the entirety of his legs to propel himself back to the surface of the water, not realizing the mistake he made until it was too late to do anything about it. He pushed himself up with such force that his feet lost contact with the bottom of the river. He was immediately swept up by the current now that he had noting to hold his place with.

"Damn it all!"

He began trying to swim to land, his arms soon hitting something branch-like for him to grab on to. No, not a branch, he realized. A leg!

He pulled up with one arm, reaching deep down with the other one to grasp onto what he assumed was a shoulder. Once he was sure he had good enough leverage, he pulled the arm holding the shoulder up while pushing the leg's arm down. His effort succeeded in bringing the weepers face over the surface of the water. Now he needed to get her out of the stupid water.

With a burning resolve, he drafted the awful girl back to land with all his might. He pulled her from the waters, as soon as his feet touched the bottoms of a bank.

Cicero was winded and exhausted after all the exertion of the day's struggles, but did not take a moment to rest once he and the girl were fully out of the water. Instead, he set to work reviving her until she finally coughed mouthfuls of water out on to the ground. Once done, she laid back down; alive, but shivering and very cold to the touch.

~[•|0|•]~

Towing the Night Mother's coffin leagues across Tamriel for as many years as he had, left Cicero well conditioned for carrying burdens over long distance. Still, it did not make him anymore happy about his situation.

At about dusk he had arrived in the lobby, still not entirely dry from his swim with his hat still in his belt, the un-conscious weeper swung over a shoulder, and her satchel clutched in his hands.

"There you are, just as I was about to start my search!" the un-child beemed.

"Where did you find her- wait, I don't want to know," she finished as she took in Cicero's vexed expression.

"Follow me then," she led him out of the room. Cicero was too angry and tired to argue at the moment, so he obliged wordlessly, making the un-child shiver.

"Let's just leave her on my bed for now while she recovers. Look at how cold she is- and her arms and feet! I guess that's poor circulation for you. She's lucky it's so humid out today. It's probably the only thing that saved her from hypothermia on the way here. She's not out of the woods yet though. I think I may have something for her. If not, hot water and blankets are just going to have to do. I'm guessing this was caused my a m-"

"By Sithis, woman! Do you ever _shut up!_" Cicero screamed as he dropped the weeper onto the little monsters bunk.

She was unphased by his out burst and sighed, "I could ask you the same thing any day of the week.

"I'm going to get supplies now. Thank you for your _help!_"

Cicero had been planning on leaving. He had actually just turned away from the weeper when-

"C-C-Cicer-ro," he heard a whispering voice say. "What ha-happen-ned?"

Cicero huffed haughtily, "Nothing, really. You just fell in the water, so Cicero had to go in after you and save your pathetic life."

"Y-you did?"

"Pfft! Yes. Yes, I did!"

"... Thank you. For s-saving me... I h-have something for-or you. The satch-chel. Sss' there."

Had this strange and not at all pleasant feeling growing in the pit of his stomach as he heard her words. He wished she would finally stop talking to him as he reached into the bag and began pulling things out. A coin purse, a sheathed knife for harvesting plants, a few flower buds, and small bottle full of a grey-brown liquid, sealed with wax and a cork.

"That- that's it," she said once he had the little bottle in his hands.

He turned the bottled over, reading the label on the other side.

"Mother's... oil... " he read as he felt that unpleasant feeling grow stronger.

"I kn-know it took long... S-sorry. Someone said-d he would try to ge-get recipie for us-s. Tried to get flowers f-for you, too-oo. But I dropped them whe-en I ra-ran away from that man. Sor-ry."

"It's... alright," Cicero said, trying to back out of the room.

"I-I know that no-b-body really likes your jokes-s, but I think th-that they're funny. And your-r songs... I th-think they're good, too."

"Oh... Well, Cicero thanks you..."

He had an unprecedented desire to leave, and now. He slowly made his way out of the room, watching the weeper.

"But he really-"

"Oh," the un-child piped. "You're awake now. That's a good sign!"

"He _really_ has to leave now!"

And Cicero fled the room.

* * *

_Nearly 6,000 words... O-O... I'm gonna' take a nap now._

_Thanks for reading and **please review!**_


	5. The Solitude Ends

_A thousand pardons for how late this chapter is. I feel like the queen of the stupids for knowing that it actually could have arrived early if it weren't for one conversation near the end of the chapter. I went through several drafts of it but just couldn't get it to where it didn't feel as if I was trying to educate you guys or show off how much I know about the Dark Brotherhood. It was supposed to be Cicero educating Critare, but it just wasn't coming out that way. It was supposed to be spontaneous and genuine. Finally, I decided to cut out most of the 'learning' and just strip the conversation to what it was at it's heart: Cicero revealing stuff about Cicero. I hope this doesn't feel at all forced or "scripted" when you read it. _

_Cicero is going to be all over the place this chapter and it might be hard to keep up with him at points. There is a reason for it, I assure you. _

_Thanks again to everyone for all their reviews and continued support for this story. I'm so happy to hear you all enjoy it and am still surpised to see how well it's been recieved. I'm so grateful for all of you; the favs, followers, and lurkers alike!_

* * *

Cicero fumbled with his torn hat, stressing it in his hands as he nervously paced the hall outside his meal area.

The weeper, Critare, was in there. And he couldn't bring himself to face her after the day before. He peered through the door, looking at Critare once again. The slave was still seated at Cicero's cratered table, absorbed in her present task: mending her baby doll.

After she had fully recovered from her freezing state, the Pretender started her interrogation. She wanted to know where she went and what she had done. She conducted her assault in the lobby, placing the frail girl in the center of the Brotherhood, circled around her. For the dog, the show was a total bore. But to everyone else, excluding the grey-snob who was still not present, the matter had been a source of extreme discomfort. Having formed an attachment with the girl, they all were bothered by having to watch her as she was ruthlessly bullied. Perhaps their unease could have been relieved some if they had been allowed to defend the girl, who seemed incapable of doing so herself. Sadly, the Pretender had forbidden them from speaking during the ordeal. But this wasn't going to stop the un-child.

It was when the Pretender was yelling, face inches away from the sobbing girl, that she finally decided she had enough.

"What the _hell_, Astrid!" she exclaimed. "She didn't try running off!"

"She had a bag of coins and her satchel with her-"

"She went to the market to get that whatever it was Cicero wanted!"

"And then she decided she didn't want to stay with us any longer and tried to flee further east of Falkreath!"

"She was looking for flowers!"

"Where are they then, these flowers? Her story is bullshit! She tried to run from me!"

The little monster made the funniest roar Cicero thought he ever heard and marched to the pile of straw the slave was given for a bed.

"She didn't leave," the un-child shouted briskly, plunging her hand into the straw.

Without taking a moment to fish around, the blood-drinker pulled the baby doll out of the hay.

"If she did, do you think that she would have left _this_ here?"

"Are you kidding me, Babette? That's just a damn doll!"

"She's my baby!" Critare wept.

"It's a doll," the Pretender exclaimed again. She turned back to the un-child, "That little _toy_ proves nothing."

"Neither does your _theory_."

No one gasped, but three of the little monster's brothers looked dumb-struck to have seen their sister stand up to the tyrant- if not a little fearful for her. The last brother, the dog, seemed surprisingly smug to see someone talking back to his mate.

Everyone watched as the two defiantly stared each other down for the next several minutes. Then finally,

"You win, _night-spawn_," the not-Speaker said cooly. "This time..."

The woman began making her way over to the small creature as she spoke, setting everyone on edge.

"But as for now," she said, taking the doll from her small hands, "she's going to learn to never leave this Sanctuary without my consent _again_."

The Pretender stepped away from the un-child, the baby doll in hand. With the other, she removed a dagger, poising it over the doll's back.

"What if she had gotten kidnapped? Or killed?" The woman brought her blade down to the doll, lightly cutting a few stitches.

Critare gasped, her sobs starting again.

"What would we have done? How we would know where to look, or who to kill?"

She cut another few stiches.

"Please... please..." Critare begged quietly.

The Pretender went on, "Or what if she had been mauled by a sabercat? What if she had fallen into a spike pit? What if she had gotten caught in a river's current- and drowned this time?"

Another five or six stitches.

"Think about all that time we would have _wasted_ looking for you. Worrying about a loose knot. It would have been a great inconvience to us _all_, Critare."

Finally, the Pretender ripped out the last remaining stiches along the doll's back, exposing the tundra cotton stuffing and absolutely mortifying Critare. She tossed the doll on to the ground, allowing the girl to dive down and retrieve it. Once she was fiercely craddling the doll in her arms, the not-Speaker crossed over to her.

She grasped the girl's chin in her hands, tilting her face to look up at her's.

"Don't do it again."

Critare nodded, "I won't. I won't, I swear!"

"You had better."

The Pretender stepped away from the girl, looking at the rest of her family.

"You can all go, now," she dismissed, retreating to her room herself.

"I have somethings to think over..." was the last thing she had muttered before disappearing.

For the remainder of the day, the girl had been inconsolable. She could do nothing but weep over her torn doll until the un-child had handed her a needle and spool of thread around midnight, once she had finally left the Pretender's room after a brief visit for something. She had calmed down after that, focusing on repairing her toy one careful stitch at a time, as she did now.

That was nearly an hour ago, and Cicero was still trying to straighten his nerves.  
He had never seen her refuse to do something once someone had said to do it. He had never seen her... anything but sad or passive with a person, either. Cicero knew he had nothing to worry about, but still... still _what_, exactly?

He had asked the Pretender once or twice for Mother's oil, after he had asked the city merchants. He had asked that farmer-man to fix the wheel on Mother's cart. He had stopped to ask for directions, a map, a place to keep Mother for the night as he carried her across Tamriel... Every time Cicero was ignored, refused, chased away, or mocked.

A giggle bubbled out of Cicero, "Foolish, foolish Keeper... what's to fear, _hmm?_ It's all nothing new..."

He stepped into the room and slowly stepped over to the seated girl who, as far as he could tell, had not yet noticed he was there.

Cicero weakly cleared his throat, "Weep- Critare?"

The girl stopped the movements of her needle, looking up at him quietly. He thought she would be angry or irritated or scared of Cicero and would want him to leave. But instead- instead she was none of that. Instead she just looked at him with big, teary eyes full of nothing.

Cicero hopped lightly from foot to foot, his gaze transfixed on a corner on the floor.

"Cicero," he said, "Cicero was wondering if Critare would please mend his hat?"

His eyes swept back to her face, which only stared back at him.

His words came out in a nervous flurry then, "She mends very well. Very well. And Cicero- he doesn't. He _mends_, but terribly.

"_See_," he pointed to a few patches of fabric he had crudely sewn onto his jester's attire.

"Cicero could mend his hat he supposes- another nasty patch but he has to remain presentable at all times for Mother and this- this is the first time he's ever torn his hat and he wants to keep it looking nice, not all tattered and patched like the rest of him, so he just wanted to ask Critare if she would help him by mending the hat for him... _Please?_"

Cicero waited, his heart pounding.

Critare stuck the needle in the spool, fiddling with it in her hands. She was quiet for several seconds before she finally spoke with a voice as soft as a wind-chime.

"I- I will... but... but I want to mend my baby first..."

She was quiet again for a moment before her head suddenly swept up, looking him worriedly in the eye.

"If that's okay," she finished.

Cicero giggled nervously, "Of course, of course! Let the weeper- Cicero means, _Critare_- fix her toy doll. Cicero can wait."

Critare frowned for some reason, but went on mending her doll. She was by this point done with mending three-fourths of the exposed back.

The jester had stopped his bouncing, wringing the un-torn end of his hat again. He had something he needed to ask.

"Critare?"

"Yes, Cicero?"

"... Cicero has been meaning to ask Critare," he took a deep breath, "does- does Critare prick her fingers a lot when she sews things?"

"I never thought about it."

"Oh..."

Cicero was quiet again, inspecting his feet.

Finally, he cleared his throat, "Cicero was... also wondering if Critare- if she had meant it when she said she liked Cicero's songs?"

She stopped the movement of her needle and stared up at him with a curious look in her wide eyes, as if she didn't understand why he was asking what he was.

"I did," she said slowly.

"And... that she liked his jokes? She thinks they're funny?"

She girl nodded.

Cicero chuckled, "They _are_ good, aren't they?"

"I think so," she whispered as she returned to mending her doll.

"Would Critare like to hear another one?"

"Okay."

"Alright! So Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak is sitting at a table with all his generals. 'We're going to kill 500 Dark Elves and a carpenter tomorrow,' he says. 'Why the carpenter?' asks a general. 'See,' says Uflric, 'nobody cares about grey-skins.' _Get it?_"

"No," but she smiled anyways.

"Oh... Well, what about this one: what do you call a dog with no legs?"

"I don't know."

"It doesn't matter, it can't come when you call it anyways!"

Cicero slapped his knee, while Critare furrowed her brow in thought for a moment.

"Oh! I get it," she said after long enough, smiling despite her watery eyes.

"_See!_" Cicero chuckled, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Cicero told a few more jokes, each eliciting a smile from Critare, whose eyes only got more and more watery with each funny. By the last one, Critare was actually making the faintest stream of broken giggles while Cicero was on the floor, laughing so hard he was out of breath.

"And he said, 'That's- that's not my horker,'" another fit of laughter brought him to a complete pause before, "'that's my _wife!_'"

He let the laughter take over him as he pounded his fist on the ground, roaring. He thought he heard someone in the Sanctuary shout, "Shut up!" at him, but he didn't mind.

He just laughed and laughed and laughed until he could no more.

He was experiencing that tired sensation in his stomach and cheeks after laughing hard enough- something he hadn't for a while now- when it all finally died down. Finally back in control of himself, he sat up and crossed his legs, looking at Critare. She was done mending her doll as it looked and had already gotten started with fixing his precious coxcomb hat. Cicero watched her quietly for a moment.

He began to feel uneasy again. He was at a total loss for what to do.

It had been a long time since anyone had ever done what he asked. He knew that it was the socially acceptable thing to say thanks. He was just... so unused to having his way. He was uncertain of what to do about it.

"Erm, Cicero wishes to thank, Critare... For fixing his hat. It was... nice of her to do."

She looked up at him surprised.

"You're welcome," she said.

Cicero nodded, his discomfort having not been eased a bit. Was that it? Was that all you ever had to do? Just say 'thank you' and be done with it? The Night Mother had never thanked Cicero- not that he was complaining about it. No, he would never think ill of his Unholy Matron. _Never_.

"Cicero," asked Critare, suddenly.

"Yes, Critare?"

"Why does your mother need that oil? You never said."

Cicero remembered the little bottle he had which still remained corked in his pocket.

"Cicero needs it to oil his Mother. To keep her skin fair and lovely as always. It has been a long time since Cicero kept her. He has been feeling awful- _terrible _and_ worthless_ because of it."

"Why?"

"_Why?_ Because, you silly- Cicero _meant_ to say, um- he had meant to say 'you Critare'!"  
Cicero cleared his throat, "Because Cicero is Mother's Keeper. If he doesn't keep her, than what is he? He... He's nothing..."

"Oh... "

A few moments passed in silence after that, until finally Critare held Cicero's hat out to him.

"Your hat is done, Cicero," she said.

The jester stood and retrieved his hat from the girl. His smile grew as he examined the area which had been torn. There was nothing but a sturdy, albeit scarcely visible, grey line left now. Cicero beamed, happy with his decision to come to Critare.

The jester bounced on his heels, "_Ooh_, Cicero is so happy with Critare's mending. He thanks her- he does. Oh, he wishes he had some way to _repay_ her for her kindness!"

Critare lowered her head, shyly.

"That's not necessary. I'm hap-"

"Cicero knows! He'll take Critare to see Mother when he oils her right now! _That's_ how he'll repay her!"

Cicero grasped her hand and began to lead her out of the room.

"Um... Are you sure I really want to do this?" she asked carefully. The hesitation she voiced seemed to betray her movement, as she offered no resistance against Cicero. She simply allowed the fool to lead her to the Night Mother's audience room.

"_Of course_ you do!" Cicero chortled. "_Everyone_ wishes to see the Unholy Matron of the Brotherhood!"

Cicero stopped them once they were outside of Mother's coffin.

Earlier, he just couldn't bring himself to do it. For some reason he just couldn't face Mother so he could finally oil her like he had been waiting to for all those weeks. At least not until now.

"_Behold_," Cicero said, "our beautiful Mother."

Cicero gently opened the coffin doors to lay his eyes on the Night Mother after what had felt like an eternity.

What he saw was enough to make him want to either cut his throat at Mother's feet, set fire to the graveyard-city, or just run through the woods laughing and shouting and laughing, like... _a maniac_.

He didn't know which was most appropriate though, so he just kept staring.

"M-Mother?" he whispered.

"I told you... It was a mother spider." Critare whispered, but Cicero did not hear her. His mind was still trying to process what lay before him.

The Night Mother- _his_ Night Mother- knelt in her coffin, covered head to toe in cob webs. They were all over the interior of her sarcophagus, thick as a fog. Cicero could still see them, the culprits of this unspeakable offense. They were crawling all over Mother's helpless body, all over their web, all over their clusters of egg sack. They were everywhere. _Everywhere!_ Cicero had to do something. Cicero had to-

"_Cicero shall kill you all- tiny devils! He so swears it, on his life!_" the jester shrieked.

"_You_," he shouted at Critare, not noticing how she lept with alarm.

"Get me something to clean this with and a rag- _no_, a jar! I want a jar. These wicked fiends will _suffer_ for their transgressions!"

Critare hurried off obediently as Cicero disolved into a hysteria of laughs.

It wasn't long before Critare returned, carrying a bucket filled with all the things Cicero had asked for and more. Cicero began his work on Mother's coffin as soon as Critare had set the items down next to him; his behavior more like that of a ravenous wolf than a human. Even a mad one.

Cicero would not allow Critare to help, shouting at her every time she offered or tried. He was the Keeper. He was the one who would handle this. Who would save dear Mother. It made Critare uneasy, being forbidden from work and so she would have nothing to do but watch someone else as they did it. This was the first time something like this had ever happened to her and she didn't know what to do about it. She just held her baby doll to her and sang or crooned to it as she watched Cicero tend to his mother.

And the jester tended to her furiously. He used a small stock of straw which had been bound together by Critare to sweep away web- but carefully. He did not wish to harm Mother or the spiders. No, not the spiders. He was collecting them all in a jar... for later. He muttered frequent curses against them- the fiends which had invaded Mother's sacred coffin- amongst new thoughts on punishing them and oaths of eternal animosity against all spider-kind.

"Cicero shall feed your sorry legs to his pet rat- no he lost his rat... have to find a new one... after the rat he'll roast most of you in an oven, bake you into a bread for the birds... Or should he just take a few of you and light your legs up, _one by one_, like the wicks of a candle... He could drown you... or just thread a wire through all of you and ask the wizard to give it a _wee shock_... _Oh, so good, so good_... So many options... Good thing there's so many of you... otherwise Cicero would never be able to choose..."

For cleaning bit of web off of Mother, Cicero used the two large feathers so thoughtfully provided by Critare to gently sweep away the awful webs.

It was all therapeutic for him, somehow. Once he had placed the lid on the jar of spiders and spider eggs, he had calmed down and was ready to start the ritual of keeping Mother's remains. Cicero closed the coffin then and carefully lowered it to the ground- so Mother wouldn't be at risk of falling out when she was being oiled.

"Cicero?" Critare asked as the jester un-corked the little bottle of oil.

"Yes, weeper," Cicero cleared his throat, smearing a drop of the liquid over the tips of a few gloved fingers. "Erm, Cicero _meant_ to say Critare..."

Critare took a moment before speaking, thinking over her words.

"Who is the Night Mother?"

Cicero halted his progress along Mother's foot.

"_Who. Is. The. Night. Mother?_" He asked incredulously. How could anyone ask such a question?

"You don't know who the Unholy Matron of the Dark Brotherhood is? And you've been living with us for _how_ many months?"

"Well," Critare said, slowly ticking off fingers on a hand free of the baby doll.

"Cicero wasn't being serious."

"Oh... Then why did you ask-"

"Because he doesn't understand- oh, but no matter! Cicero shall teach you! And you shall know! Come, come here and see the Night Mother."

Critare did as she was told, crouching down by the side of the coffin opposite of Cicero.

"Is she not the loveliest _of all!_" said Cicero sweetly.

"Um..." Critare looked uncomfortable having to answer that question, but Cicero started his lesson regardless.

"The Night Mother is the matron of the Dark Brotherhood. And that is it, see. Simple... _Ooh!_ Simple, but _grand!_"

"Why is she the matron?"

Cicero looked at Critare as if she had asked him some ridiculous question, like why water was wet.

"Because, you foolish girl, she was the wife of Sithis. Bore him five children and sacrificed them all to him."

"Sa-sacrificed?" Critare asked, holding her doll closer to her. "She _killed_ them?"

"Well, of course," Cicero beamed as he gently lathered oil around Mother's ankle.

"I don't think she did that," said Critare, though she may have been speaking to her doll, which she now touched in a tickling manner, rather than Cicero.

Cicero shrugged. _Fools will be fools_, he thought.

"The Night Mother is also important," he went on, "because she hears the prayers of those who perform the Black Sacrament and-"

"What's that?"

"_Hush!_ The Black Sacrament is the ritual, you know... Oh, you _don't_. Well, a person stabs a pretend body with a blade rubbed with nightshade while saying the incantation. 'A kiss, sweet Mother,' and all that! Anyways, the Night Mother hears the prayers of those who call on her- a prayer for so-and-so to die and then tells the Listener, then the Listener tells a Speaker, then the Speaker makes a contract and gives it to one of his family.

Then," Cicero giggled, "then, we serve Sithis."

"You mean, you kill them?"

Cicero rolled his eyes, "Yes, we kill them."

"That's not very nice."

"Oh, _potato, patato!_"

"So, you're a listener?" she asked.

Cicero stopped oiling Mother, drawing back from her coffin a bit. Critare looked on at him, worried she had said something to upset him.

He stared at Mother distantly for a moment before he finally spoke, "No, Cicero... Cicero is Mother's Keeper. He just... keeps."

"I don't understand... You don't listen to her? She never talks to you?

Cicero sighed, "Cicero is not the Listener, weeper. Didn't he just tell you that?"

"But you have to hear her when she talks."

"No, but that doesn't mean Cicero doesn't try... He tries _so hard to hear her_. But he never does."

"See, you're a listener. You listen for her."

"No- _ooh!_ Cicero sees! You think _anyone_ can 'listen' to Mother. Oh, but it is not so. It is not so," Cicero chuckled at Critare's ignorance.

"Mother only has one Listener at a time. And only they can hear her sweet voice. It is the highest honor of all to be Listener."

"Do you want to be the Listener, Cicero?"

"Yes. Yes, Cicero wants to be Mother's Listener. He wants it more than _anything_... If Cicero was the Listener... everything would change for him... Cicero tries to show Mother he can be her Listener. That he is the most loyal. Most humble. Most obedient. He wants her to know that he will be the best Listener and take care of her always. He loves her so very much... She was all he had when the family fell apart. He has waited a long, long time... But Cicero knows that one day she will speak to him."

Cicero looked at Critare, who was looking back at him intently.

She wasn't ignoring him or interrupting him or mocking him or telling him to leave. _She was just listening._

Cicero thought this over some more before bursting into laughter.

"Want to hear a joke?" he asked.

"Okay."

"So, an old Altmer lady, a young Nord man, an old war maiden and her daughter walk into an inn. They talk about plans to sneak into an embassy. The daughter asks, 'How does an fugitive Altmer hag, a wanna' be magician, an ex-dragon hunter and her daughter- all also fugitives- walk into a Thalmor embassy unnoticed?' 'I don't know,' says the high elf, 'ask the preist!'"

Cicero errupted into a fit of chuckles.

"What the hell is going on in here?!"

Cicero and Critare turned to look at the Pretender, standing at the left entrance to the audience room.

"Oh, look! Our dearest Pretender," Cicero sang out, sweeping down to grasp the jar of spiders.

"Nothing much," he answered cheerfully. "Just these wicked fiends disgracing the Night Mother. No need to worry yourself, though. Cicero plans to punish them by sticking _teeny_ pins in their eyes."

"Mmm. Have fun with that."

Cicero glared at the Pretender, then turned away from her to gaze menacingly at the spider-jar.

"Critare- you weren't in your bed this morning."

"I- I wasn't trying to leave."

"Nevertheless, not being right where you should have this morning was a very bad decision. Not that it wouldn't have been a problem to begin with if _someone_ had done what they were told and chained you last night."

"Bite me!" shouted doggy from the other room.

"Now, listen up, girl. I have some good news for you."

"Ooh, good news!" Cicero clapped his hands, mockingly. "Let Cicero guess: you've come to realize how lost you are without the old ways and now plan to return to them, whole-heartedly."

"No."

"A fool can hope."

"Don't you have some spiders to pin or something?"

Cicero frowned but lowered back down next to Mother.

The not-Speaker turned back to Critare, "After much thought, I've finally decided to make you a full member of the family. Congragulations."

"What?"

"Exactly: _what?!_" Cicero exclaimed. "The Pretender has reached a new level of idiocy if she thinks that Critare is _at all_ fit for killing!"

"I'm going to kill people?" Critare whimpered, squeezing her doll tight against her.

"Yes," the not-Speaker answered, "you're _going_ to kill people. And you're _going_ to like it."  
She turned to Cicero, "I presume you have a problem with this arrangement."

"Problem? No, Cicero has no problems. This one here, though, does. The weeper was telling Cicero all about it just now. She has issues with killing, thinks it's not nice. One of those _moral_ sorts. Pfft!"

"Like I had said, she's going to do it."

Critare lowered her head but remained silent.

Cicero scoffed, "There are other things too, _your foolishness!_ Think about if she's caught- which she will be. What then are you going to do? Who's going to go to the market to get your precious skin tinctures and wrinkle ointments? Or food? And Mother's oil? That's the whole reason you had her shop and no one else."

The Pretender smiled that smile that just made Cicero want to cut out her jaw.

"First of all, _fool_," she said, "when it comes to murder investigations, most guards usually suspect the weak, helpless, starving, mad young ladies living in poverty, _last_."

"Cicero had said 'caught' not 'suspected'-"

"Secondly, she won't get caught."

"_Hmpf!_ That's what you think!"

"Oh, I don't think; I _know_."

"Is that so, you stupid, _stupid_ not-Speaker of blasphemy?" Cicero was becoming more and more strained to maintain his self-control. All he wanted to do now was stab, stab, stab!

"Critare," the Pretender asked, "two days ago, when you 'went to the market and looked for flowers,' where had your flower basket been?"

"By Babette's bed, in the bunk area," Critare mumbled.

"And where did you find the satchel I had given you?"

"From the common area, the one with the enchanting and alchemy tables."

"And lastly that coin pouch you had taken- the one which you're given whenever you go to the market. Where was that?"

"In your room... on your night stand."

"And how did you get in my room?"

"... I picked the lock..."

"Who even taught you to do that anyways?"

"Everyone knew how at the... the Honor Hall place."

"What?" the Pretender sighed, "Did someone here teach you, or not?"

Critare shook her head.

The Pretender nodded and turned to Cicero, "I know that you're insane Cicero; so _please_, if you think that someone who can sneak out of a den of assassins- one of which is a werewolf- after sneaking through most of it as it was 'patrolled' by a vampire, I suppose I can understand it."

The Pretender turned and left with one final smirk.

Cicero fumed. Making the weeper an assassin was a bad idea, he just _knew_ it!

His thoughts were interrupted suddenly by the sound of quiet sobbing behind him.

He turned to look at Critare curiously.

"What in Sithis are you _crying_ for? This is an outrage."

"I d-don't want to kill anyone," Critare choked through miserable sobs.

Cicero sighed, having no idea what to do about her.

"Umm... Here, let Cicero tell Critare another joke."

* * *

_So, on a fan fiction that I read once, the author had placed a big a/n at the end of the story talking about how she got the idea for it, how she wrote it, and answering questions which had been left in her reviews. I had personally learned a lot from hearing her whole stroy and had just enjoyed getting to know the story behind the story. The point that I'm getting at is that I having been planning to post something similar at the end of the final chapter to be read by those of you who are at all interested in any of that stuff. I mention this now so any of you guys who have questions about the story or anything you didn't get or whatever can start posting them now. I'll answer them, if they haven't been "answered' by the end of the story._

_One last little thing here. The last joke Cicero makes is actually something of a reference to another story of mine, **Soul of Cinder**, which is presently on hold until I finish this one and **What We Need**. I was planning to use that same one in SoC (though there it will be more situational) when I got around to it. But I was just lazy and unhappy with all my results for "morbid jokes" that I googled on the internet, so I decided to pluck one from somewhere else. Just wanted to explain that little oddity. _

_Thanks for reading and **please review!**_


	6. A Heart for You

_For those of you who didn't develop a heart condition after looking at the length of this chapter; no, you aren't mistaken. This is gonna' be a long one. I wish I could say that this was the reason for this update's delay, but it's not completely. _

_That aside, a few more things to go over concerning this chapter:_

_We're going to be doing something a little different this time. This chapter is an arrangement of moments taking place over two and a half months. It's episodic and the instances are all chronologically ordered- except for one 'thread' which will weave through the chapter to the end. So don't be confused. Secondly, I had taken some creative liberties with Liz's section of the Sanctuary. Don't get confused by that either. A warning for teeny critter abuse. _

_And while it has nothing to do with Cicero; I somehow heard the song __**"Champion" by Donora**__ in my head the entire time I wrote this chapter._

* * *

Cicero tip-toed back into the Sanctuary at about an hour before midnight, holding Critare's cloth-wrapped gift in his hands. In matter of hours she was to leave the Sanctuary for her first contract, so Cicero had to hurry if he was going to have the gift ready on time.

He quickly snuck through the halls, as silent death. While he made his way to his chambers he mused over the past number of weeks in his life, trying to wrap his head around all that had happened in them.

~[•|0|•]~

"You know, dearest Mother," Cicero said as he massaged oil onto the Night Mother's palm. "The funniest thing happened yesterday- eh, not _funny_ exactly- Cicero knows funny and what happened yesterday wasn't funny... What was it then? Odd? Strange? _Unusual?_ Well, it was quite unusual. Critare- you know, the weeper, the Pretender's slave- listened to me. Actually _listened_ to my jokes and-"

Cicero gasped, "And then that _Pretender_ came in and started yammering about 'good news'... No, she did not say she was returning everyone to the old ways- _I know what you were thinking_- but sadly, no. So to make yesterday even stranger; the Pretender had announced that the weeper would be joining our family. As in killing- _for Sithis_. Cicero knows, he had thought the same thing!

"The weeper started with her training yesterday evening. Let's hope that the not-Speaker won't shame the Dark Lord by sending that Critare on a contract when she sees no improvement in the girl. Because Sithis only knows there just won't be."

~[•|0|•]~

The end of Cicero's dagger hit the target across from him with a clean thud.

After the first few bulls-eyes, he had gotten bored and just settled for lazily throwing whatever knifes and daggers he had in his little pile. No one was there to see him while he laid there, reclined on the ground as he sent blades into the heads and chests of dummies with a flick of his wrists.

He had no idea where everyone else was, save for the Pretender and her slave. They both were in the dining area.

"You useless slut!" the Pretender shouted. Cicero could just see it as the woman yelled with her face inches from Critare, who would be trying to keep her crying under control.

"When I tell you to cut something, I want you to damn well cut it! You couldn't put a tear in that dummy- you didn't even try! You're weak! You're pathetic..."

"Cicero _tries_ to tell you so," the jester mumbled, flicking another dagger at the targets.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero bounced on his heels on top the dining table, giggling boisterously.

"... so then the knight tells the barbarian- _come on!_ Don't you sorry gits want to know what the knight tells the barbarian?"

"No!" everyone at the table shouted at once.

"Just _get down_ from that table and leave, Cicero, _please_- for the love of blood and gold! We're trying to eat dinner. In _peace_," the softy groaned.

Cicero rolled his eyes and skipped away to his chamber, plopping down on his bed when there.

"Guess they don't want to know what the knight says..." he muttered.

"Um..." he heard behind him, quiet and soft as the 'coo' of a dove.

He turned around to see Critare at his door, a plate of food in hand.

She looked at her feet shyly, "I wanted to hear what the knight tells the barbarian... if that's okay."

~[•|0|•]~

"But she is _in-com-pe-tent_. What part of that can you not get through your thick, blonde head!" Cicero shrieked.

"And she's going to learn. To improve. What part of that can you not get through your head?" the Pretender retorted, icily.

Cicero roared and left the Pretender's room, slamming the door.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero gently brushed a feather along the Night Mother's hair, trying to clean the brittle strains of dust and dirt.

"I tell you, Mother. I keep telling that not-Speaker that Critare can't be an assassin, but she just won't have it!"

~[•|0|•]~

"Shove off, clown," the Pretender groaned as she dipped a quill in ink.

"Fight me all you want about Critare; I'm not changing my mind about it. Now if you would please leave me. I have things that need to get done- _important_ things. Why don't you go clean under that corpse's finger nails. That's something that's right in your range of skills,_ isn't it?_"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero grabbed at his face, holding his mouth shut. It was getting so hard for him to not laugh.

The grey-snob sighed, helping Critare properly nock another arrow on the bow string.

"Alright, now try," she said.

Criatre obeyed, loosing the arrow.

The projectile fell to the straight to the ground, Critare leaping out of it's way as it fell as though it were a fall snake. That was when Cicero couldn't contain it any longer.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero left his chambers late at night, seeking a loaf of bread or apple or something to satisfy his hunger. On the way there he spotted Critare pitifully crying, huddled up underneath a small table.

Seeing her like that triggered that familiar, unpleasant feeling in his gut again. He suddenly forgot all about his hunger and turned on his heel, scurrying back to his room.

~[•|0|•]~

"No one wants to listen to Cicero's stories- the one's about his life before he was Keeper!"

Cicero continued lamenting as he oiled Mother's ear, trying to mind the fragile skin.

"No one, _except_ for Critare, Cicero guesses... You know, ever since the spiders- _ooh!_ Mother, Cicero has been meaning to tell you: he has some plans for those pesky fiends which had offended you. You thought Cicero forgot all about them, but, oh- no, _faithful_ Cicero has not forgotten! He won't tell you what it is, but Cicero has quite a _surprise_ in mind for you, Mother!"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero took careful aim at the target in front of him. He took a few moments to swing his arm to and fro, trying to get a feel for the steel dagger in his hand.

Finally, he raised his arm before quickily bringing it down and releasing the dagger. The dagger flew swift and straight, hitting it's intended target, a spider.

Cicero crossed over to the target, inspecting what was left of the spider.

Finding nothing, he began to tut, "No, no, no. Cicero will _need_ much more of you all to be left behind if he is going have his surprise for Mother."

~[•|0|•]~

Critare turned to Cicero, eyes pleading.

"Can I go look at the fish, Cicero," she asked.

Both were on a walk together outside the Sanctuary. This was the fourth time Cicero had agreed to come with her outside when she had asked him. She still wasn't _nearly_ the sort of company the jester favored having what with her constant quietness and tears, ever present- even in her moments of absent-minded passivity. But it was her lack of conversation that was worst of all to Cicero. When spoken to, she seldom would reply with a whispered statement longer than five words. Not to mention how she normally never had anything to contribute to a discussion. So boring.

Nevertheless, Cicero was spending a growing amount of his time with her. She might not have been his first choice for company, but she was still his _only_ choice by being the only person in the Sanctuary who tolerated him. Cicero supposed it wasn't _so_ bad. Her reluctance to speak fit considerably well with his habits for ceaseless rambling. And while she either didn't understand or like his jokes, she did want to hear them- even if her weak little laugh was so... incredibly obnoxious.

"Eh, if you must."

Critare smiled faintly and tip-toed over to the pond with her arms out, twirling around a few times on her way.

"I like fishes," she said as she stopped at the edge of the pond.

"Yes, yes," Cicero said, almost grumbling as he laid down in the grass to nap. "Just try to not fall into the water. Cicero would like to _not_ have to dive in after you this time."

"Okay."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero looked down at the tray of spiders he was carrying with him on his way to the kitchen.

"Cicero has told the Inquisition about you," he giggled. "They know you are Talos-worshipers."

Cicero set the tray into the bread-baker, kindling the fire within.

"Prepare to _burn_, fiends."

~[•|0|•]~

Critare was sobbing quietly in the lobby, leaning on her broom as she wiped some tears from her face.

Cicero had been outside the room watching her, this whole time deliberating on whether or not to try... something. He couldn't bring himself to leave her. But he similarly didn't want to speak with her when she was like this, either.

He cleared his throat, catching Critare's attention.

"Err, Critare... why are you... crying?"

"Astrid yelled at me again."

"Oh..."

Cicero approached her uncomfortably. _What to do? What to do?_

"Uh, would Critare like to hear a joke?"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero watched Critare as she attacked the dummies with a dagger. Well, not attack so much as slowly brush the blade against them.

He looked closely at the burlap weave of the dummy she had worked on.

"How did I do?" Critare asked carefully.

Nothing. Not a even scratch on the fabric. She may have frayed one or two stitches some.

"Um..." Cicero started, avoiding Critare's gaze.

He cleared his throat, "Cicero believes she was asking _you_, greeny."

Greeny glared at Cicero and turned to Critare, "Well... You are going to need more practice..."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sat on a bench in Mother's audience room. At the moment he was scraping old wax off of her candlesticks with a dagger, letting the bits and pieces fall into a basket between his feet.

"Critare is so nice to Cicero, Mother. You really would like her. She listens and she hears and she doesn't think about people as this or that... Hmm, Cicero doesn't know how to explain it, but it's a good thing... He likes talking to her. She never, ever gets short with friendly Cicero, _no_. She's always so _nice_.

"But as nice as she is, she's hopeless, Mother! _Hopeless!_ That girl wasn't made to kill. And none of those fools know how to train a worthy assassin... _That's it!_ Cicero shall train Critare. After all, who was ever more competent a killer than he? With Cicero teaching her, she'll have to progress! You would have to agree with Cicero, no?"

~[•|0|•]~

Scales had left for lunch, leaving Critare to practice her form alone and Cicero with an opportunity to mentor her without any disruptions.

"Why, hello, Critare."

She smiled faintly at him, looking rather depressed. "Hi, Cicero."

"Today, Critare is going to learn how to throw a dagger."

Cicero held a blade out in front of her and made a gasp and '_ooh_' sound, trying to generate her interest. By the looks of it, he wasn't successful.

"Okay," she answered nervously.

Cicero placed the dagger in her hands, "Alright," he said, "now _throw_ it!"

Critare turned to a dummy, raising the dagger.

"No, no, no, Critare. Your form is all wrong. Here, let Cicero show you."

Once Cicero had adjusted her form, he permitted her to throw the blade when ready.

_Cicero is such an effective teacher_, he thought smugly. _She will be trained in no time, now. Everyone shall see._

Critare looked at Cicero shyly once more. He smiled and gave her a nod of encouragement, granting her enough confidence to turn back to the dummy. She smiled faintly, swifty raising the dagger above her head.

Her grip on the dagger must have not been strong enough, because as soon as her arm was over her head, it was gone. Already flying through the air.

_Backwards._

Cicero turned around, his bewildered eyes searching for where the dagger had went. It didn't take him long to find it.

The softy had been seated behind them the entire time, reading one of his many books. The dagger was now lodged in the contents of the one he held, which he slowly lowered to reveal a pair of ired eyes staring wordlessly back at them.

Cicero could feel it as Critare tried to hide herself behind him.

~[•|0|•]~

"She is going to _die!_" Cicero exclaimed as he slammed his fist on the Pretender's business table.

"No she won't." the Pretender hissed.

"Are you mad, _woman_?!"

"She just needs time, _fool_."

"Time? It's been _twelve weeks!_"

"I'm aware. But I've thought of some ways to better motivate her from this point on."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero unwrapped Critare's gift, getting to work with wiping the blood from it with a few damp cloths.

"Oh, Mother... Please tell Cicero that Critare will like what he gives her..."

~[•|0|•]~

"Cicero is so grateful Critare came with him to help gather flowers for Mother."

Critare smiled shyly, reaching down to cut a few yellow mountain flowers from their stems. The two were a few miles west of the Sanctuary, harvesting flowers at a location Critare had pointed them to.

"Um..."

"Yes, Critare?"

"You... you should leave length of stem with the blossoms when you cut them."

"Oh," Cicero looked at the cluster of stemless deathbells sitting beside him.

He cleared his throat, sweeping the heads under a bush when Critare wasn't looking.

"Cicero knew that," he chuckled.

"Um..."

"Yes, Critare?"

"Are... you sure you don't want any help making it?"

"Critare, _please_. It's a garland; how hard can it be?"

Critare looked down at her feet and shrugged.

~[•|0|•]~

"_Critare! Critare!_" Cicero screamed, bounding through the halls of the Sanctuary in search of her.

"_Cri-_" he stopped, sliding to a halt and reaching out for the archway which led to the room with the alchemy and enchanting tables.

He had spotted her in there. She was sitting with the un-child at a small table, looking to be in the midst of one of their little tea parties. Cicero did not care for this in the least bit, though.

"Critare," he shouted again as he ran into the room, grasped Critare by the hand and yanked her up. He didn't even give her time to fully rise to her feet before he started back off to his room, running with her in tow.

"Hey!" shouted the little monster.

"It's a disaster, Critare!" he cried.

"W-what?" she stuttered, still stumbling as she tried to keep up with him.

"The garland. Oh, Cicero is an utter fool! He has no idea at all what he's doing. _See_,"

He opened the door to his room, revealing a scene of twine twisted in to senseless knots, broken stems, crushed flower heads and loose petals all over his floor.

"Oh..."

"It's a mess, Cicero knows.

"Please," he took Critare's hands in his own. "Tell Cicero you will help him make the garland. He's _begging_ you."

"Okay." she said, smiling faintly.

~[•|0|•]~

The two sat together in Cicero's room, weaving flowers and leaves into garlands under Critare's direction. This was the eleventh time Cicero had gotten her to set some of her time aside and help him construct his garland for a number of hours.

This time, Critare had brought her doll along with her and had left it sitting in her lap as she worked and listened to Cicero's chatter.

"... Had Cicero ever told Critare about the time he had killed a bride at her own wedding? He had done something extra special to do it. He had to if he were to not be suspected- or caught. All those witnesses, all watching the _bride_. He could have very easily been caught. Yes, weddings are _tricky_ ones... But Cicero loves a challenge! _Yes, yes!_

"The groom, you see, he had a brooch of his family crest he was to wear on the special day to hold together his expensive cloak. He-he! Cicero disguised himself as a servant and paid a visit to the groom. Helped him dress for the special occassion, and just as he was helping the man get his robe on, Cicero 'accidently' pricked him with the tip of the brooch's pin. The noble was mad about it.

"But what he really should have been mad about was how Cicero had laced the tip of the pin with the essense of a Black Marsh frog he had managed to get his hands on. _The red-eyed squatting frog._ Cicero had heard of it long before from a helpful Argonian trader. Ooh, _yes_. The tiny beasts are rarely consumed in their country because they've been known to have certain toxins in their meat which cause uncontrollable violence when mingled in the bloodstream with wine.

"Ho-ho! It was so _good_. As soon as the two had said their vows, they shared a little wine and _wham!_ There the fool was knocking his wife to the floor and beating her broken skull into the pretty marble tiles. Oh, no one suspected honest Cicero. They didn't suspect _anyone!_ The perfect wedding kill- _everyone_ had said so once Cicero had told them about how it went! Oh, they all had been so impressed by it. ' _'Inspiring work, brother!' 'Genius, as always, Cicero!'_

"Ah, Cicero had loved those times. But what does Critare think? She must think that it was ingenious too now, hmm?"

"I do," she answered with a small smile, turning her attention to the baby doll in her lap.

"Um..."

"Yes, Critare?"

"I was wanting to ask if..."

"Go on."

"If you could spare a flower or two... I was wanting to make a flower crown for my baby. I- I'd only need two or three- if that's alright."

Cicero chuckled, looking at her fondly.

"Why, _of course_. Critare may take as many flowers as she likes. Mother has far more flowers by now than what can fit in her audience room."

Critare smiled and reached over to pick a few blue mountain flowers from their basket on the ground. Cicero watched quietly as she positioned them over her doll's head, figuring out the arrangement of the crown. For a moment all he could think of was how she handled the thing with so much tenderness and care. She must have felt a real love for it.

"Cicero is intrigued by how much care Critare takes in keeping her doll. Tell Cicero, is this the first time Critare has cared for a doll?"

Critare shrugged, frowning sadly while staring away at the floor.

"I used to have another baby," she said, softer and quieter than what was usual, even for her. "She was blue. But they took her away from me."

"Oh..."

Cicero looked away, trying to find something to lift Critare's sudden melancholy.

"Oh! _Look_, Critare! We only have another foot to go until we have finished our garland for the Night Mother! Critare had been such a wonderful help. So skilled. So _talented_. Mother will truely love what she's done for her. Truely!"

Critare nodded and Cicero wasn't able to tell if her small smile had more to do with her characteristic shyness or an attempt to feign happiness.

"You're almost _done?_" they heard a little half-pint monster Cicero knew and loathed exclaim.

They both turned to see the un-child standing in the doorway with her little hands on her hips as she glared at Cicero as if she thought could scare him. She didn't.

"_Finally!_" she said as she marched over to Critare and took her hand, tugging it. The movement was more a sign for her to rise to her feet.

"_Hey!_" said Cicero as she watched the little monster pull Critare to her feet. "Cicero still _needs_ Critare!"

"Shut up, Cicero! You've used all her free time this week- and last. I wanna' turn, now!

"Well," Cicero rose to his feet. Critare was already standing, hand held by the little blood-sucker. "The little monster must find someone else to play house with, then! Cicero needs Critare and he won't let imps take her!"

Critare looked back and forth between the two, seeming exceptionally stressed by her situation.

"_Nuh-uh!_ You only have one foot left. You can do that on your own. It's my turn now!" she spat before leading Critare out his door.

This wasn't over.

Cicero followed after then, "Hey! Get back here!"

~[•|0|•]~

"It's a dagger, fool," snapped scales. "There's a reason they put a _hilt_ on it."

"Just because a weapon is made a certain way is no excuse for not getting a little... innovative," Cicero retorted, wagging a finger at the Argonian.

"Creativity, hmm? Only when using a weapon as it was intended to be used, can you explore all the possibilities in which it can be truely implemented. You of course wouldn't understand seeing that you've never studied swordplay."

"_Oh_, so now we're talking about swords? Cicero thought we had been discussing daggers."

"No, we had been 'discussing' what a total waste it is to _throw_ them!"

"_It_ is _not_ a _waste!_"

The two went on arguing as Critare watched uneasily, wondering when one of her trainers was going to start instructing her.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero covered his mouth to dampen his giggles as he snuck into the lobby, his sights set on the dog sleeping by his forge.

He bent over the sleeping hound, chuckling as he slipped his hand in his pocket to take out the cloth which held the spider within it's folds. Unfolding the cloth, he carefully picked the little wriggling beast up with two fingers. The jester held it out, trying to poise it over the dog's open mouth just right.

Cicero needed all the spiders he had for his gift to Mother... but he had supposed that he could afford to lose just one...

He dropped the spider, watching breathlessly as it fell into the dog's mouth- and was chewed up in an instant. The doggy stirred some but did not wake.

Cicero howled with laughter, leaving the lobby now that his fun was over.

_Priceless_.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sat with the other Sanctuary members at the dining table for their morning meal. He was gradually beginning to behave more tolerably around them so he would be allowed to eat his meals with Critare.

Cicero had been sitting at the table, bored and doing his best to restrain himself from joining any of the conversations as he ate. Sithis only knew the moment he spoke he was going to be kicked out of the room. That was until the Pretender walked in like she owned the place... which, Cicero supposed she did in a way.

"Alright," she said, catching everyone's attention. "I have an announcement."

She held a folded piece of paper out to Critare, who was at the stove, filling the dog's plate with his fourth serving of food.

"What is it?" she whispered, taking the paper from her mistress.

"Your first contract. The date's been set. You're to leave this Sanctuary in forty days to kill Erendriel, the Bosmer woodcutter turned Companion."

"Oh..." Critare nodded stiffly, looking paralyzed with fear.

"Why forty?" softy asked.

"Why _at all?!_" Cicero exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

The Pretender only ignored him, "Because our contract is aiming for something more... spontaneous. A certain timing which won't leave others to suspect him. After all, the elf _is_ a mercenary."

"Not just a mercenary," said the mutt. "A Companion, Astrid."

The Pretender rolled her eyes, "Werewolves. No werewolves. Doesn't really make a difference when you kill the elf while he's alone and away from Jorvaskrr, does it?"

The mutt grunted and went back to his food.

"You're sending her on a contract involving werewolves?!" Cicero shouted. "She might die. Don't you see that?"

"Get out, Cicero. I'd like to eat in peace for once, thank you."

"At least let Cicero come with Critare! He could keep her safe and protected- should anything go wrong."

"And let everyone spot a very peculiar maniac wearing a jester's get-up in the area with her around the time of the death? No. You're going to stay here, with _precious_ Mother, instead."

"No, Cicero _will_ go with Critare! Otherwise, Critare will come back in pieces!"

"Get out, Cicero."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero walked through the halls, looking for Critare. He was in one of his bored moods and figured that he might as well entertain himself by speaking with the girl. He finally found her on her pile of hay in the lobby, small lengths of different fabrics around her and a spool of thread and needle in her lap. This looked interesting.

"_Ooh_," he said, squatting down next to her. "What is it that Critare is doing now? Tell Cicero, he's ever curious."

Critare looked up at him and smiled faintly.

"I'm making clothes for my baby. She has none."

Cicero laid himself down on his belly, proping his head up in his hands.

"Oh, but doesn't Critare need to have her doll for that? Where is it?"

Critare frowned for some reason Cicero couldn't fathom.

"No. I know my baby... And- and Astrid took her away... I'm not doing good enough with my training."

"Oh."

"Um..."

"Yes, Critare?" Cicero giggled. He had a hard time not finding many of Critare's habits endearing now. It was always 'um' or 'if that's okay' with everything. So adorable. And her little dove's-coo voice was so pretty. Everything always so soft.

It had actually been growing more loud, as of late. Only by a hair or two, but still.

"I- I was wanting to ask you..."

"_Yes?_"

"I'm going to go to the market in Falkreath in a few days to recieve the recipe for your mother's oil. I wanted to ask if you would come with me, you know... Since it was for your mother."

"Why, of course, Critare. Cicero would be _delighted_."

~[•|0|•]~

Critare sobbed, laying her head on Cicero's shoulder as the jester stroked her back comfortingly. The not-Speaker had screamed at her again.

He was beginning to sort out what jokes she liked and those she didn't. And he well understood now that anything involving death or harm were usually not liked. Which pretty much excluded everything in his repertoire. Luckily he had also learned that she enjoyed listening to talk about certain topics, like animals or flowers. She particularly liked fish.

"You know, jolly Cicero used to have a pet rat. A good little rat, brown like Cicero's hair. You would have liked him. He had the cutest way of eating cheese. Just nibbling it all over with his fat, wee cheeks. Such a good boy. Never bit. And so smart. Cicero had even taught him to sneak keys through small holes, just incase he was ever imprisoned..."

He went on, relaxing the more he saw Critare calm down.

~[•|0|•]

"But Astrid _must_ allow Cicero to come along! Critare will die if no one is there to help her and you know it!"

"Damn it, Cicero. Do you ever let up?! You're not going. I forbid it," exclaimed the Pretender.

Cicero narrowed his eyes, making a rare choice to lower his voice.

"It does not matter what the not-Speaker says. Cicero will go with Critare and will protect her."

The Pretender looked at him, eyes blazing.

"Go with her and I will light that corpse of your's _ablaze!_"

"You would not dare!" Cicero roared, rising to his feet.

"Oh, yes I would. She's nothing but a corpse- the ugly relic of a dead cult! She's obsolete-"

"_Silence!_" he roared, running from the room. Running from the Sanctuary.

Once outside he let himself scream like the madman he was and assulted the bark of a tree with his dagger until he collapsed on the ground, panting. He laid his head against the abused tree and thought.

He couldn't come with Critare. The Pretender meant it when she said she was going to harm Mother in his absence. But Critare would surely die all on her own on her contract without him near. The thought of losing either of them was _unbearable_.

What was he to do?

~[•|0|•]~

"Oh, Mother," Cicero said as he worked over the contraption before him, using the tip of his dagger to carve a hole into the corner of a wooden board.

"Cicero is distressed. Critare is to leave for her first contract in twenty-nine days and she cannot even swing a dagger. She is not ready, nor will she ever be. And Cicero cannot leave with her to watch over her... Not without abandoning you to the _stu_-pid, _spite_-ful, _hor_-rid clutches of that dreadful '_Speaker_'! Cicero hates that one with every fiber of his being. If he could, he would strike her down without a second's deliberation. He hates her... He hates her... But he cannot send her worthless soul to Sithis for he has not the authority. No, no. Cicero is only _Keeper_ so he may not-"

Cicero bit his tongue, stopping himself before he carried on _any_ further with his grievance.

"Mother," he pleaded, "when shall you make Cicero your Listener? You know Cicero's heart. You know his love and devotion to you. Cicero swears, Mother, that when he is your Listener you shall never be in want for Cicero shall fill and deliver every longing of your heart... But he only needs you to _tell_ him..."

Cicero placed his project down and drew himself closer to the sarcophagus, placing his hand on the aged stone-work. He his guesture, his tone, it all was ringing with a miserable sort of pleading, uncharacteristic to him.

"When will you finally speak to him? How long must we wait for guidence. Cicero... Cicero has grown... _unhappy_ waiting. He waits though. He waits to hear your voice, and he'll wait _forever_ if that is what you know is best to do..."

Cicero looked down at his lap quietly for a few moments, lost in thought. Then finally, he actually paid attention to what he had in his lap and spotaneously burst into chuckles.

"Look, dear Mother," he smiled as he held his project up in front of her sarcophagus. "Cicero is making a little something for you. Not a something that involves the spiders- but another surprise that is totally different. Cicero hopes that it help can solve the issue with Critare- granted he finishes it in time for her to leave.

"You know, Cicero likes Critare. He thinks though that Critare might not like him. At least not as much as Cicero likes her. Critare just doesn't smile at Cicero as much as he does her, you see. Hmm, now to fix this... Cicero will have to figure something out. And quick. She's going to leave in twenty-nine days!"

Cicero threw is arms up, feeling another wave of anxiety tumble through his gut.

"Oh, Mother, what is Cicero going _to do?!_"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero and Critare passed under the arches to Falkreath at an early hour. The air was cool and crisp, the fog common to the hold made a tad thicker due to the autumn season into which the year had already passed. Today, the atmosphere had a haunting note to it, putting Cicero's high spirits only higher.

He had hooked his arm though Critare's, forcing her to keep up with him as he skipped them half-way to the inn, humming a merry tune.

The citizens and guards had looked all at them quizzically, so Cicero assumed they must have not known they were- what could he say- _friends_, until now.

Having Critare with him sure did seem to put the people at ease when jolly Cicero walked by, though. They seemed skeptical of him at first, probably trying to figure out in their heads how they could reach Critare for whatever in the Dark Lord's name they wanted from her _without_ coming within ten feet of Cicero. But that would not be the case for those of them. Cicero wasn't going anywhere outside _one foot_ of Critare.

"_Here we are!_" Cicero sang once they were outside Dead Man's Drink inn.

Critare nodded, shyly stepping through the door Cicero held open for her.

"Well, look who it is! What a nice surpise it is to see you, again," the words of the Inn's greeter, a woman, lost their delightful tone shortly after Cicero stepped though the door.

He smiled at the woman, who just cleared her throat and fixed her apron.

"It's nice to see you, Critare and... um..."

"_Cicero!_" the jester answered, jumping up then hitting the floor in a deep bow.

"Ah, yes! _Cicero_," she sputtered nervously. "Uh, it's very nice to see you here too... again."

No, it wasn't, Cicero knew. But, eh, not everyone could appreciate his style of humor. What was _he_ to do about it?

Critare smiled at the woman, nodding her head in a shy return of her greeting.

"H-has anyone arrive to-to see... me?" she asked in her usual low volume.

"Yes, actually, there is. That one over there in all the leather. Got here just last night."

"Thank you, Valga," Critare whispered, as Cicero walked them off to the table they were pointed at.

As they neared the table, Cicero's mood began to foul. But it was when the man had shouted a greeting and lifted his tankard while smiling at Critare in an act of friendly acknowledgement, that Cicero finally knew that he did not like him. Not one bit.

At a glance there wasn't much difference between the two; the stranger was taller but they both had similar unkept brown hair which fell to a similar length. But then there were the man's arms: lean and light packed with muscle. Of course Cicero's arms were equally as thick, but Critare didn't know that, did she? Then there was the case of his face: gruffly bearded and perfectly manly. Perhaps Cicero should start trying to grow a beard... definitely wouldn't ever have the masculine Nord chin and jaw. No, he was Imperial. Then there were his perfect stature and perfectly broad shoulders. Oh, and let us not forget his perfectly deep voice, far different from Cicero's... odd one.

Cicero just wanted to take a club to his perfect teeth.

"Good to see you, Critare," the man said once they were both seated across from him.

"Hi, Vipir," Critare replied neutrally. Cicero might have been gladdened by her reaction to seeing him had this sort of passivity been the norm for her- _all the time!_ There was no telling what she was thinking about this strange and admittedly better looking man.

Cicero began to anxiously circle a finger around a small space of the table.

"Who's this?" the man asked.

Cicero raised his chin at the man, "_I_ am Cicero. And _you_ would be?"

"Uh, I would be Vipir... Er, Cri and I both knew eachother growing up in... _Nevermind_."

He cleared his throat and looked at half-empty tankard in front of him, looking somewhat shaken by the menacing glare Cicero had been giving him.

He knew Critare both knew eachother? While growing up? That was a long, long time to have known someone. They could be acquaintences. They could be friends. They could be- Cicero couldn't stop himself from thinking it- _lovers_. And he even had a little name for her; Cri. Ugh, Cicero was presently having a hard time keeping his temper from boiling over.

"Hmpf, well carry on then, _Vipir_." Cicero scowled.

"Then, let's just get right to this," he said, reaching into a pocket of his armor.

Strange, that armor. Leather. So many pouches and buckles. Cicero could have sworn that he knew it from somewhere.

"Here's the recipe for that blend of oil you needed," he handed her a piece of folded paper.

"It wasn't hard to get... was it?" Critare asked carefully.

"A little-"

"It was? I'm so sorry-" Critare looked at him worriedly.

"It wasn't that bad, Critare. Don't sweat it, alright? Just bit of a trip, really. Had to go all the way to Morrowind to find it. You wouldn't imagine what people are willing to do to protect their secret formula for an embalming oil."

Critare nodded, sitting back but not looking at all reassured.

Cicero leaned back in his chair haughtily, "Hmpf. Critare should have asked Cicero to go, instead. He wouldn't have been troubled by such a trip in the least."

Vipir looked both offended by Cicero's words, albiet a little skeptical of them, but said nothing concerning it. He merely looked at the jester oddly before looking back at Critare, who was placing a large pouch of gold on the table in front of Vipir.

"Oh, that won't be necessary, Critare," he said, pushing the coin pouch back to her side of the table.

"But you need compensation."

"Not this time."

_Ooh_, Cicero thought acidly, _how noble of him!_

His specific choice of words set a train of thought quickly in motion, and in moment he had identified the armor 'Vipir' wore. A thief. He was a thief. A wee pawn from that washed-up band of pocket-pickers in Riften. _Ha!_ Cicero only knew this because that Pretender had brought one into the Sanctuary to do some business once during the period before Critare's stummbling upon the Sanctuary. Needless to say it had _infuriated_ him, her mixing their business with the likes of thieves! They were the Dark Brotherhood! The powerful. The mysterious. The sovereign! The deliverers of souls lain down in the Void- a force to be reckoned with! They had no need for _thieves_. How could they be sovereign and powerful if they needed help from outsiders to even stay afloat? How could they think of themselves as mysterious and exclusive, much less secured by the veil of secrecy, if they allowed others to know of them and their ways and _yet live?_

It had all been a source of extreme bitterness between faithful Cicero and the blasphemous not-Speaker. A Brotherhood which allowed the Thieves Guild to be involved with it's business had actually been the topic of the very first argument between the two.

Aside from the Pretender though, Cicero had always had the smallest contempt for thieves. They had always been irrelevant to his life, so he never had a real reason to hold them in comtempt, see. He merely saw them as shadow-walkers whose skills were either too poor for the level of talent required for a dark brother or that were good enough for the Brotherhood, but absent of the nerves to do it.

Looking at this 'Vipir', Cicero was beginning to wonder why he had not held a religious disdain for them in them past. It seemed clear now that they had always deserved it. And he wasn't just going to let this cheap sneak go and charm _his_ Critare!

"Oh..." Critare said, moving the pouch to her left disappointedly.

"Are you sure-"

"Gods' curse it all!" Vipir laughed, "Yes, I'm sure! I don't want you to pay me. This was a favor... done as... a friend, see?" He said it so oddly, almost nervously...

He had to have likings for Critare, otherwise there was just no explanation for his odd behavior. Thieves didn't just give up a chance to snatch a fat purse of septims. That much Cicero knew of their ways.

"Alright..." Critare said, twiddling her fingers together.

The thief began to carefully ask Critare about what she had done after she had left some 'row' place, Cicero really wasn't paying attention. The whole time they talked, Critare continued to stare down at her fingers.

Cicero narrowed his eyes at the thief; now was his chance to have his word with him.

Taking advantage of their distractions, Cicero knocked the coin pouch onto the floor with a small jerk of his elbow. Only once Critare was below the top of the table, picking up the coins spilt across the floor, did Cicero act. He quicly stood, leaning over the table and planting his hands firmly on it either side of Vipir.

"Think you're so special, _hmmm_, thief?" he said, lowly so Critare wouldn't hear. "_'Ooh, look at me, I take things out of people's pocket while they're still alive and breathing! Aren't I special?'_ Well, Cicero knows just how _special_ you all are. You say you don't kill because then you'd get a 'reputation', but Cicero knows that it's really because you're just a bunch of big _chickens!_"

Cicero was going to continue, but sensed that his time was up with the thief and moved to sit himself back down. He managed to land back in his seat with his elbows bent on the table, propping his head on top his hands, just as Critare rose back into her seat with the gathered coin pouch.

If Critare noticed anything unusual- like Vipir's sudden bewildered and uneasy demeanor after receiving such a loony rant- she didn't show it. Something about the table did feel odd to her though, and she turned her gaze to Cicero. The jester, looking a little too casual, removed a hand from under his chin to wriggle the fingers at Critare, telling her to continue with what she had been saying before.

As the two went back to their conversation, Cicero fumed. He didn't even get to tell the fool he was to stay away from Critare from now on, or he'd cut his fingers off. Couldn't pick a lock without those, now could he?

Sooner than later, the two stopped speaking.

"And if you ever need anything ever again, Cri..." Vipir said, pulling Cicero out of his vexation. "Uh, just don't be afraid to get in touch with me. I'll always be in the Ratway."

"Alright," Critare said, but by the way she frowned Cicero knew she had no intention of ever 'bothering' him to do something again.

Vipir made a nod of farewell to Critare, choosing to ignore Cicero, and instead walk straight back to his room.

Critare looked to Cicero, eyes asking if he knew the reason for the man's sudden behavior. Cicero merely shrugged and asked if she was ready to go.

~[•|0|•]~

The two had left the inn and were about half way along the road leading out of the city when they were stopped suddenly by a pack of half-lings and their dog.

"_Shoo_, half-lings," said Cicero, pressing on. "Cicero and Critare have no time for your little foolish business."

He detected a slight hitch in one of Critare's steps, an indication she wanted to stay and chat with the little half-pints. Cicero rolled his eyes, but it was what Critare wanted to do. What was another few minutes of his time to him?

Cicero unhooked Critare's arm from his and watched as she and the children approached eachother. A few of the half-ling girls twirled in circles, trying to mimic Critare's eccentric dance- as if they could. She complimented their form anyways and began talking half-ling nonsense with them, somehow not dying of boredom while doing it.

Well, Cicero most certainly was just having to hear it. He turned his attention away from their group, searching for something to engage his interest.

Unfortunately for him, all he found when he had turned around was a half-ling boy looking right up at him.

"My mommy says I'm not allowed to talk to you."

"Pfft! Your 'mommy' is a pock-marked crone which will die of brain-rot if that band of fat wrapped around her belly doesn't smother her vital organs, first."

"_Mommy!_" the boy ran away, distressed.

Well, that was easily taken care of.

"That's right, run away before Cicero... cuts off your mother's ears and nails them to a door or something."

Cicero suddenly heard the gasp of a woman to his right, and so turned his head that direction. He thought it was better to just let himself have low expectations for what he was about to see. Steel himself for more disapointment. But what he saw was actually pretty good.

_Spectacular, even!_

When Cicero turned he saw a pair, one boy and one girl, standing together in the alleyway of two small buildings. The boy had just presented the girl with some box, whose contents Cicero could not see, but understood were the cause of the girl's gasp and excitement. The girl embraced her companion, grinning ear to ear.

Cicero's eyes widened.

He hurried back to Critare, taking her by the hand as he sped out of town, pulling her along with him.

"Good-bye, everyone," Critare said, keeping up with Cicero as she was far used to this kind of spontaneous behavior from the jester by now.

"Can we stop to see the fishes on the way back home, please?" she asked once the children had made their own farewell's to her.

"Of course," Cicero laughed boisterously. "Of course, we can, my Critare!"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero ran into the Night Mother's audience room, sliding to a stop just in front of her sarcophagus.

"Cicero has found it, Mother!" he panted, smiling at the closed coffin.

"Cicero knows what he will do for Critare! He will give her a gift and then she will squeal with delight and _embrace Cicero_- or not! Either way, Critare will like it- and him... Agh, but what to get her?"

Cicero slid to the floor, thinking.

"Cicero could make a song for her. He is very good at making songs- _ooh!_ And then he could serenade Critare with the song accompanied by a lute- er, maybe not the lute- but still he _will_ serenade her!"

Cicero fell back onto the floor, finally allowing himself to catch his breath as he put lyrics together.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero took the handful of bee larvae and other little bugs he had found in Babette's alchemical stores and slowly dropped them into the jar, little by little.

He watched as the remaining spiders scrambled to get their webs around them, smirking.

"Don't mistake this as a gesture of appeasement," he chuckled. "No, Cicero has certainly not forgiven any of you for your crimes. Nor will he _ever_."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero ran the flat edge of his dagger against a small stone, not aware that his movements to sharpen the blade were causing it more harm than good by this point

He was to focused on watching Critare and scales talk casually across the room from him.

"Stupid greeny... Cicero would be a better teacher, but _no_. Miss Pretender wants all the sloths to do it... Lazy, no good, wussy thinks he's so much _better_ than Cicero. Hmpf... Cicero will show him..."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero moaned to himself, lying on a bench in Mother's audience room late one night.

"What rhymes with 'blood' that still good? No, sud or mud... Ugh... _Dumb_ idea anyways... Critare doesn't usually like things with killing... Maybe a little song about squirrels? Hmm, maybe not... But many things rhyme with fish. Yes, maybe a song about fish will work. Oh, Cicero hopes it works... Only fifteen more days..."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sat at the table in his room, trying once again to piece together lyrics. His arms were out over the table, propping his head up as he thought.

Somehow he just couldn't imagine singing a song to Critare about fishes who all adored, admired, or cared for the woman without it being tasteless or simply... overdone. But at the same time it seemed to be the only topics which were doubtless appropriate to her interests.

"_Ohh!_"

Cicero slumped forward in his chair, cradling his head in his arms.

"It's just_ no use_... Cicero _cannot_ make a song for Critare! He must do something else but he needs to know just what... only fourteen more days before she goes..."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero gently trimmed any remaining fat or rugged edges from his to Critare gift. It had to look perfect! He had made quick progress on it and hoped he would continue that way. Only a little longer now and she would be leaving...

~[•|0|•]~

"Cicero would like to thank the wizened old wizard once more for all his assistance with the spiders," Cicero smiled sincerely as he examined the blacked wire lined with a dozen or so dead spiders in his hands.

Minutes before, he had quickly stuck them all on the stiff wire- and at the abdomen to unsure they wouldn't die _too_ soon- before coming to the wizard who gave the beasts a few tiny shocks with him magic, as Cicero had arranged for earlier.

"He will not forget his service today," Cicero continued. "And neither will Mother."

The old wizard grumbled, "Well, when you had told me yesterday that you wanted to use my talents with magic to electrocute some defilers of the Night Mother's sarcophagus, of course I was more than willing to help. Only I hadn't exactly expected... little spiders. But I promised to do it... So _there_ it is."

"Oh, the wizard shouldn't feel so insulted," Cicero chastised playfully, making the old man roll his eyes. "Desecrators and heretics are desecrators and heretics, no matter how small they might be. If only you had seen what they had been doing to Mother before Cicero finally opened her coffin... Oh, you would understand."

The wizard then sighed, "Now, now, I never was complaining so don'tngo talking like I was. I still think the Night Mother must be shown the utmost respect, such as you do. And if you say some jar of spiders offended her, then I guess, as Keeper, I can respect your opinion. I just was expecting people, that's all... It's been a long time since I've heard some screams and smelt some burning flesh."

"Oh, Cicero understands in _that case!_ Deaths for him have been too few and far between. How he misses the thrill of the kill. But no need to be so down. Didn't you see the way the little fiends helplessly _writhed_ when they died oh, so slowly?"

Cicero held the wire up to the old man's face, "Cicero could just hesr it too, their little screams._ 'Help me! Eeee! Save me! We're so sorry, for what we did Cicero!'_

"And now you've paid the price, _fiends!_"

The wizard scrunched his nose and pushed the wire out of his face.

~[•|0|•]~

"You dull, lazy, talentless lizard," Cicero spat at the Argonian. "All you've ever done is swing an elongated knife through the air once or twice in fancy manners- you assume Cicero is going to be _impressed?!_ Try building a trap or something else unique!"

It was long after dinner and the two just couldn't seem to drop the argument they had gotten into, staying in the kitchen until near midnight, bickering.

"_Unique?_" greeny smirked. "Is that what you call all those old assassinations of your's? Avalanches. Frenzy poisoning without traces left in cups or visible wounds. Replacing real locks with fixed ones that spring poisoned needles. Oh, yes, _I know_. Critare tells me all about them. And to me it just seems like a great way to lose business. What's the point in killing, if all your work only ever looks like an accidental death?

"And, hey, if that was how everyone back in Cyrodiil was doing it, then it's no real _wonder_ no one seems to think we're relevent anymore. You can't blame them when they can't accredit our work to us?"

Cicero let out a wordless roar, too angry to argue any further. He threw a tankard at the lizard- who smugly dodged the projectile- before storming out of the dining area.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero scoffed, still stewing as he wiped he the stain glass of Sithis behind Mother's place in the audience room.

It had been hours since his argument with the Pretender and her lizard and softy, and he was still stewing.

"... That greeny sure does think he's _so_ special just because he's shadowscale... Oh, sure, flinging blades around is impressive enough until you think about Cicero! Him? Why he is a puppet-master! All he would ever have to do was pull a string and they'd be done and the rest would come, screaming- just as he had wanted. He had control over his kills. He was the most like death! So of course they kick him out. Ban him from Critare's training. It's because they're all jealous- that's why! They can't admit he's better- so they have to try and make him unseen so they don't see their own incompetencies!

"Well, scales may try as he likes, but Critare will never choose his scaled hide over Cicero. So, he can act all smug and think he's better than him because of his smooth and even mannered ways-"

Cicero raised his fist, about to strike the glass.

He didn't know what had stopped him from doing it- he had felt the rage boiling in him so strong. But he didn't strike.

He shut his eyes tightly and breathed. Relaxing himself and he let out his breath and opened his eyes.

"Cicero... ought to think of something else..."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero looked at the needle and spool of thread he had found in the kitchen minutes ago, probably left behind by Critare when she had been called by the Pretender to practice reading with the big softy. He had picked them up, intending to return them to her, but his thoughts carried him to his chamber instead.

Now he found himself staring at the objects on his table, wondering if it was worth a shot to try and make some small clothing for Critare's baby doll. It seemed like a more than suitable gift to impress Critare with and he had to do _something_ soon as he only had twelve days left... All he had with him were old stained cloths... But he knew where the grey-snob kept her dyes. He could probably mask the stains... Make a little hat or pair of boots and cloak for the little thing.

How _hard_ could it be?

Cicero reached for the spool and thread.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sighed sadly, looking down at his sore fingertips. They were frightfully swollen and red from the multitude of pin-pricks he had inflicted on himself hours ago. Accompanying the inflammation was the sticky blood, which he had at first been too impatient to wipe up. Later on was when, after additional pricks, the pain had become too acute to pick up a cloth. Much less touch anything else...To make matters worse, he had switched the hand he held the needle in halfway through his attempt... hoping he'd have better control with it. Of course he told none of this to the un-child, though.

She was positively annoyed, chastising poor Cicero as she picked through her chest, gathering the things necessary to treat his injury. Cicero simply sat dejectedly in his chair, not really wanting to listen to the little monster.

"... I mean, come on. Did you ever even think to wear a thimble? Or at least to stop at some point? _Why_ were you even sewing?"

"Cicero would rather not tell."

"In that case, I don't want to know. What I just don't understand is how you managed to prick yourself so many times and so _deep_."

"Um..." Cicero started.

He had been so nervous. He didn't shake at any point, mind you- but he had been too focused on his task to often realize it when he had stuck himself. His lack of patience didn't help either, as his growing frustration with the project only caused him to move quicker, to push the needle through the fabric more violently. He didn't even know how he had ended up several times with an incomprehensible mess of knotted, tangled thread in a jumble of bloodied cloth. He thought he had been thinking up different solutions to the problems.

A number of moments had already passed, and Cicero had still not answered the un-child.

She rolled her eyes at him and sighed.

"Ugh. Only _you_, Cicero."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero followed Critare as she went to the kitchen.

It had been a long day of training for her and he was eager to finally have his moment to spend time with her while she prepared dinner for the Sanctuary. It had been quite a _long_ day for him too, what with his failed attempts to sew something for Critare's doll and the embassing injuries which resulted. The little monster had finished wrapping them with a bandage a few hours ago, telling him she was going to brew a little potion to help his fingers heal faster before making a small remark about what an _idiot_ he was. In the mean time, she had given him a few tiny bottles of pain-relievers which he was to drink from once every two or so hours. He had put his gloves back on once she was done with him to hide his humiliation.

"Once again, Cicero is on the search for a gift for his friend..."

"What was that, Cicero?" Critare asked.

"Nothing. _Nothing_," he cleared his throat. "What is Critare making for supper, tonight?"

"Venison stew."

"_Ooh!_ Cicero's favorite."

Critare nodded, smiling.

Once the two had reached the kitchen, they both went to their separate tasks: Critare to cutting ingredient and Cicero to mulling over gift ideas as he watched her cook. Some time had passed before Cicero was pulled out of his pondering by the sight of Critare about to lift an enormous couldron of boiling water off a fire.

"Critare, wait!" he shouted, making her jump as she turned to look at him.

He ran to her side, "Allow Cicero. He does not want for for you to get hurt."

An image of the greeny lifting a heavy load of firewood for Critare a few days ago came to his mind. And suddenly Cicero felt a burning resolve to ensure that she knew just what feats of _real_ strength he was capable of.

"This little pot is nothing for _strong_ Cicero," he added.

"Alright..." she said, backing away to give him room.

"So," he said, moving to grasp it. "What would Critare like Cicero to do with this once he lifts it for her?"

"Ci- Cicero, I didn't need-"

Cicero hadn't been paying attention to what she had been saying, though; promptly taking the handles of the cauldron in his grasp and beginning to lift it.

He had completely forgotten about the pain-relievers he was long since due to take.

In an instant, the intense pain shot through his finger and traveled up his arms. He yelped, dropping the cauldron. But the tub didn't land right back onto it rack properly and instead fell to the floor, taking the rack with it and spilling the boiling contents all over the floor. And Cicero.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sat at the kitchen table, watching Critare cook with his head laid on the table.

She had only been meaning to throw ingredients into the pot as it turned out.

After he howled in pain, everybody had came rushing in demanded to know what had just happened. Critare explained. Everyone laughed at poor Cicero. The Pretender snapped for Critare to return to her cooking. The un-child treated his burns after telling him how lucky he was that he had made a batch of medical tonics much larger than what was necessary for his fingers.

_Oh_, and the Pretender had banned him from ever doing anything at the stove or counters again.

Cicero sighed, running his finger over a knot in the table.

"Ciceo is such a _fool_," he quietly pouted.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero reached for his jar of now deceased spiders.

He already had the red and black dyes laid out, along with the array of old rags, now all he needed were the bodies.

After removing his gloves, he got right to work with dipping the remains of the fiends into the dyes and then lying them down on the rags to dry. With the dark brown ones, he saw that they were submerged in the black dye. On the other hand, the rarer white ones were treated with the red dye.

He had to get those colors _nice and bright!_

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero and Critare sat on the floor, leaning their backs against the wall opposite the one occupied by Mother's sarcophagus in the audience room. Cicero had a book, _The Mystery of Princess Talara Vol. 3_, laid out on his lap and Critare had her head laid on Cicero's shoulder, listening as he read to her. This had become a favorite pass time for the two, reading books together.

But as much as Cicero liked spending time with Critare, he found the material in these storybooks to be a bit, eh... _lacking_. So, naturally he fixed this issue with a just a dash of his own creative genius.

"And galloped at full speed westward. 'I thought you were an ambassador, not a mage!' laughed the Gyna woman. 'I believe there are times for diplomacy,' laughed Lord Strale... 'Shame!' cackled Gyna, stabbing Strale in the back and throwing his body off the horse-"

"Wait," Critare said softly. "But I don't remember that happening when Babette read the story to me."

"Uh... Well, that was because Babette was reading Critare another version of the story. The _bad_ one. This one Cicero reads is the _good_ one."

"Oh."

And Critare laid her head back on Cicero's head as the jester continued with his story.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sat- _quietly_- with Critare and the softy as they went over the details of Critare's contract. She had only eight more days to go before she left, and the not-Speaker wanted to be sure her slave was prepped on all the details. After all, while she and the softy had been working to address her illiteracy with daily reading sessions, she wasn't going to be able to refer to her contract to re-check details once she was out there.

"Alright," said softy, "Now describe to me what your target looks like."

Critare took a short breath before reciting all the information, "Erendriel is a bosmer with olive skin, wholly black eyes, an atypically large nose, and has his head completely shaven except for a band of hair across his scalp which he likes keeping cropped short and raised up. He normally wears white war paint on his face. Has a piercing in his left ear. Wears only light armor. Never travels without an axe."

This was why Cicero was so interested in sitting in at this session. He had never heard Critare say _so much_ all at once in all his time of ever knowing her.

"Very good, now give me whatever additional information you can about him."

Critare nodded, "Does not follow the green-pact. Clumsy, but skilled and capable in combat situations. Known for having an easy-going and non-hostile personality. A Companion for two years. Frequently fulfills hirings alone. If target is wearing a ring, be sure to remove it once the contract is fulfilled. Mind acute hearing and sense of smell. Be cautious of target's experience in combat if confrontation is decided upon."

The softy yawned, "Well, it looks like you've got this all rehearsed now. We'll be sure to go over it again before you go, but for now go tell Astrid your ready for your next order of business."

Critare nodded and left the room. Cicero watched her go before moving to stand when he caught sight of the softy out of the corner of his eye. _Glaring_ daggers and knifes at good, well-behaved Cicero.

Cicero looked back at the softy. What had he _done? _Cicero thought back on the whole session. He knew that the softy absolutely loathed jesters, as well as many of Cicero's... habits. But it made no sense since he had been _so_ good. He didn't even make a peep. Not one. No jokes. No humming. No rhymes. No dances. No fidgeting. No tapping his feet or fingers. No noises whatsoever.

No, Cicero had been good, good, good.

So why was the softy looking at Cicero as if he would snap his neck if he so much as broke eye contact with him.

One moment. Two moments... Thirteen moments later.

_Still_ glaring silently.

Cicero was beginning to feel himself shrink under the merciless gaze.

"Ci- Cicero shall go now..." he said lowly, slowing getting himself up.

He inched out of the room at a snail's pace, never once daring to turn his eyes away from the redgaurd until out of the room and out of sight.

~[•|0|•]~

The sewing didn't work, so maybe this time whittling would.

Cicero prayed so. He had seven days left to find something to present to Critare before she left. But how hard could it be?

All he had to do was pluck pieces of wood out of the grain. He did that all the time at his table. And he just had to be more careful this time when he worked.

He had already been plucking away at a block of wood for hours now, and to him the song bird was shaping out pretty well.

He heard the paddling of little half-ling feet leaving the bunks and on their way to his eating room.

The un-child walked towards Cicero, standing on her toes to see what he was doing. She stood there for a moment before slowly scrunching her nose in confusion.

"Why are you making a slaughter fish?"

"Cicero is not carving a slaughter fish, you foolish night-spawn. He is carving a bird, _clearly_."

"Well, it looks like a slaughter fish."

Cicero was getting irritated, "It does _not_."

The un-child was quiet for a moment, "Then why did you give it teeth."

As she left the room, Cicero examined the carving, rolling his eyes. It did not have teeth. The little un-child didn't know what she was talking abo-

"Hm, _does_ have teeth..." he muttered. "Maybe the little monster did..."

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero had been getting sick of the smug and superior looks scales had been throwing at him whenever they passed one another as of late. Ever since the jester had been banned from Critare's training, it was like scales had to rub it in his face that everyone had chose his scaley arse over him. Sure, he could 'do nothing about it,' but that was where greeny was wrong.

"_No_, Cicero can very _much_ do something about it," he chuckled. "_Just not to your faces!_"

He was excited, eager to see how the little prank he had set up played out. The jester had done a bit of 'fixing' to scales' chair so that it would collapse the next time it was sat in.

Right now, he was waiting for him to come in as he surveyed the kitchen from up high. He laid on his belly by the top of the wooden stairs leading to the bunks, allowing nothing more than the top of his head to peek past the edge of the floor.

This was going to be so _good!_

He thought nothing of it when the softy walked into the room while he waited. Not until he sat himself on the fixed chair.

The thing came down right away with a crash. The redgaurd looked up, seeming to know exactly who did it and where they were.

Cicero did not last a moment under the scope of the softy's wordless glare. He slowly inched back, out of the redgaurd's sight.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero sat at his eating table, focused again on another whittling. A squirrel this time.

That was when the un-child came by with the lizard.

"Oh, what are you making now, Cicero?" she asked.

"Let the un-child see for herself," he answered, holding the near-completed carving out to her.

"Huh. You're _actually_ getting better at this."

Cicero swelled with pride.

"That's a really cute mudcrab," she finished before walking away with her dark brother.

"_Crab?_" Cicero repeated indignantly, looking back and forth between the carving in his hand and the retreating form of the un-child.

Setting the carving down, he slumped back down in his chair. He only had five days left.

~[•|0|•]~

The grey-snob sighed, "When you hold a bow, you must have _confidence_. The bow is only as lethal as feels the one who weilds it. If you can't believe your capable of killing, you never will."

Rubbed her temples as she assessed all the missed arrows lining the bottom of the back wall, where they had hit the stone surface and fell, clattering to the floor. Some landed a number of feet in front of their intended target. Others landed yards either left or right of it. One or two managed to strike the wooden legs of the blasted thing. But none actually struck through- much less bounced off- the painted burlap bullseye.

Out of all Critare's trainers, pompous was the only which seemed to treat her job wholly as a chore. At least that was how she started behaving after deciding her student wasn't as much fun to belittle as when it was limited to a disguised comment given every now and then. But besides whatever the Pretender or her lackey wanted to believe, Cicero knew Critare had progressed. He admitted that it was slow, but at least after all these weeks she could send the arrow flying when she loosed it.

"But I don't want to kill anyone," Critare whimpered.

"And _that's_ another problem. If your never going to be willing to kill, your bow never will be either. Now try again!"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero stroked Critare's back, speaking as she laid her head on his shoulder, listening to every word he said. Everynow and then she would sniff, but it was more than clear that Cicero had calmed her down. He was getting much better at this.

As always, the Pretender and berated her again- _loudly_. She then came running to Cicero after she had been excused. But it was no matter; she was alright now.

"... And Cicero has also heard about a mysterious fish deep in the ocean waters with a great round head and eight arms like snake-tails that can grasp things. It's very smart, they say. And always so strong..."

~[•|0|•]~

Critare's progress in magic was much swifter than that in archery or melee combat. And while she could cast more than enough spells that would have their uses on occasion, she still was having trouble with the destruction and conjuration schools- which she needed to master if she was planning on killing her targets with arcane weaponry.

She and the wizard had been solely focused on this in their last few sessions together. But the extra attention was of to no avail. Critare couldn't even muster so much as a spark to light a candle, much less to summon a spectral wolf. They had tried atronachs and frost and electric magics of course, but with the same sad results.

Right now she was seated with the wizard, who was trying not to lose his patience with her as she failed once again to shoot flames from her hands. Cicero couldn't blame him in a way: seeing the way the whole process went, there was not much else the old coot could do other than repeatedly command her to try casting the spell and watch to see if she did. There was no way to teach the ofen elusive mental dimensions that came with understanding the nature of a spell well enough to cast it. And the old man might as well have been telling Critare to spit skeever from her finger tips.

She could conjure pretty bulbs, sheilds, and auras of light as well as heal cuts and, at this point, other mild wounds. Critare was inconsistent in her success with it, but proved she was capable of casting a veil of invisibility over her if she was focused enough. She even showed a mild capacity in pacifying those around her, while still showing no signs of power to similarly invoke rage or anxiety. Last of all, she demonstrated a capacity to conjure a magic dagger. But again, she had only done this once.

And while Cicero was happy Critare now possessed sufficient means to keep herself from harm, he wanted the assurance of knowing she won't have to do so for long. He wanted for her to have some sort of weapon to save her if she was ever in danger, as a last resort at the very least. She may have been able to summon a dagger on one occasion, but Cicero himself knew that she was far to unwilling to ever use it.

Cicero was beginning to worry that this coming trip she would have to take in order to reach her target would be her last.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero beamed, swelling with pride.

The two were on a walk in the woods together when he recited his favorite joke to Critare- the one about the man and the horker-wife- and she had laughed and smiled at it.

And not just curl her lips, but actually _smile- _with teeth. He had never seen her do that, not ever! And her laugh was getting better too. It was becoming less faint and more full- as if the breaths were finally catching onto the cords of her voice whenever she laughed. It made Cicero so happy to see her like this.

Now to make her smile even bigger!

"Oh, and Cicero was wanting to let Critare have this," he said as he removed Critare's precious doll from his pocket.

At the sight of it, Critare became immediately apprehensive and backed herself away from Cicero.

"But Astrid said that-"

"Cicero _knows_ what the Pretender said, but he does not care. Critare deserves to have her doll whenever she likes. In the Sanctuary or not in the Sanctuary."

"But Astrid had also said-"

"Cicero knows that the Pretender had also said Critare cannot have her doll unless she does well with training. But Cicero thinks Critare has done well and deserves to have her doll. 'Astrid' just happens to have this medical condition that effects her mind- in addition to the color of her hair. So Cicero doesn't care what she says."

Critare's resolve was breaking, "But what if Astrid sees that the doll is missing? She'll be mad at me."

"Cicero doubts it," he said as he tossed the doll to her. "He'll be sure to return the doll to her cupboard before she notices. And if she finds out anyways, he'll still be happy to take the fall for Critare. After all, _Cicero_ was the one who took the doll."

Critare looked down at the doll she cradled in her arms.

"My baby," she said.

"Hm?"

"My baby... You had said she was my doll. Don't call her my doll. She's not my doll, she's my baby."

Cicero stared at Critare in bewilderment. There was nothing that was at all frightening or commanding about her tone, but still it was the most assertive thing he had ever heard her say.

He nodded, "Critare's baby."

She smiled at this and asked, as always, to see the fish while they were still outside. And, as always, Cicero obliged.

They changed course for the pond they knew was most close by and settled in at it.

"Thank you, Cicero, for giving me more time with my baby," she said as she sat down by the edge of the pond.

Cicero grinned, "Anything at all for sweet Critare."

He laid himself down in the grass, finding a plot shaded enough from the sun. The hold was having an unusual bout of good weather as of late, and it was leaving things so abnormally... bright. As he laid back and thought, he suddenly felt his anxiety return over what he was to give Critare when she left in three days. He was still empty-handed.

No not a song... not enough time... He could try another whittling of course. Maybe this time a bear... had a simple enough shape... Maybe he could go to the city's merchants again. Try his luck there... There _had_ to be one of them which was desperate enough to sell to him... There had to be...

"I just love fishes," Critare sighed.

Cicero sat up slowly. _Fishes!_ Why hadn't he thought of it earlier?

~[•|0|•]~

No later than the moment they set foot back in the Sanctuary, did the Pretender promptly send Critare to her melee training with scales.

Cicero did not mind this in the least though, and even _welcomed_ the opportunity. He hastened around the cave to find a bucket, hurrying out of the Sanctuary as soon as he had one.

Once back at the pond he had went to with Critare only hours earlier, he carefully scooped some of the finger sized fish into the bucket.

He hurried back that same afternoon, feeling like a champion.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero had been looking for Critare. Not for any reason in particular other than to... talk, he supposed. He had been directed to the Pretender's room by the grey-snob. When he saw that the doors to the room were shut, he didn't have to hear it to know what going on inside.

The sound of Critare weeping so helplessly was one of the most terrible of them all, to Cicero. The only sound that was possibly worse, was that of her being beaten. Both were going on in that room at the moment.

Cicero had to leave if he was going to be able to control himself any longer.

He _hated_ it! Not being able to help Critare. He had never wanted to do something about that not-Speaker more than he did now. And yet he couldn't. Not his _place_. Not if the tide was turned in her favor and it put Mother's safety at risk. No! No! No! _No!_

Cicero uttered his grievances against the Pretender to the Night Mother as he oiled her, making a quiet, impassioned prayer to her that the woman one day be punished ever so _mercilessly_ for her actions.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero looked around Mother's audience room. The garlands Cicero and Critare had made hung on the walls, still fresh thanks to the preservative potions which the un-child had treated them with.

Everytime he saw them, he couldn't help but admire their beauty. A plant which had a large part in each of them had been a few long and flowering cypress vines which Critare had found the day after they started their project. The vines had not only been the physical foundation of the weaves, but the aesthetic one with their dark leaves and bright red stars. Accompanying them were clusters of red snow berries as well as blossoms of red mountain flowers and this odd, yet lovely, flower Cicero had never seen before which Critare called feather celosia. With every four feet of garland there would be one of two arrangements. The first was of large glowing mushroom caps topped with a pair of generous vines of jazbay grapes, juniper branches, nightshade and blue mountain flowers- put together in such a way as to look like a bowl overflowing with fruit and flowers. The second was a wreath composed of deathbell heads, lavender, sparse purple mountain flower blossoms, and interesting inter-workings of creep cluster. A mature nirnroot was placed inside each wreath which, coupled with the glowing mushroom arrangements, made for a beautiful sight even when the candles were blown out.

Perhaps that was why Cicero couldn't bare to hang his gift to Mother- the dead and dyed spiders crudely strung in a pattern onto a simple line of thread- in the same room.

"Well, this is what Cicero had planned to do for dear Mother... You understand why he can't hang this in your presence, don't you... Deserve so much better than this- _like_ the wreaths. Sweet Critare is so gifted with making such darling things, you know. She herself is pretty, even when she cries. Oh, so pretty. Much like you Mother... Do- do you think that Critare will ever think the same of _Cicero?_"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero moaned, looking down at the bucket of fish he had caught, now floating still and lifeless in the water. He held his face to the top of the bucket, holding nothing back from the good-for-nothing traitors which had so shrewdly quit on him.

"Why, fishes? _Why?_ Don't you little fish like Critare? Don't you want to see her smile and be _happy?_ Don't you care _at all!_ For _Cicero_, perhaps? Why did you all have to die? You could have made Critare so happy! Tell Cicero- why you do you wish to _ruin everything?_ Do you _want_ to see Cicero have nothing to give Critare? Does that make your worthless little fish hearts _happy?_ Answer Cicero! You have left him with only the remainder of today and tomorrow to find a gift for his beloved Critare. Are you happy now? Well, _are you?!_"

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero was working on yet another whittling. This time of a bear. This time while sitting on top of his cratered meal table.

This time he would get it right for sure!

He was nearly done when the un-child came paddling in, as she always seemed to do right on cue. Cicero made no effort to acknowledge her. The blood-sucking imp had been nothing but trouble for him, so he simply went on carving with intent focus. She quietly went over to examine his carving, appraising it from where she stood at eye level with the thing. She was quiet for a few moments before speaking.

"I've gotta' hand it to you, that's one spot-on cow."

Cicero jumped to his feet, throwing the carving straight to the ground as he shrieked, "_It_ is _not_ a _COW!_"

~[•|0|•]~

Critare and the softy were going over the most important words Critare would need to know while out on her first contract. Some were just to keep her from walking into potentially dangerous situations. Others, like 'Inn' or 'merchant,' were to keep her from attracting attention by asking questions.

Cicero really didn't pay much attention to what the two went over. The softy was still making his signature glare at Cicero whenever he was given the chance with Critare not looking.

Again, what did behaving Cicero _do?_

~[•|0|•]~

Late that night, Cicero pressed his ear against the Pretender's door. Everyone but himself may have been invited to this meeting, but that wasn't going to prevent him from having a part in it.

"Let's just get down to business," said the Pretender, from the other side of the door. "Nazir, has Critare memorized the details of her contract?"

"Every last one."

"And her reading?"

"She's memorized the bare minimum of what she'll have to know for this contract."

"Good. Now Gabriella, how has her marksmanship been?"

"Terrible."

"Has she made any progress?"

"She's still every bit as dreadful as when she started."

The jester piped in, "Cicero disagrees. Critare can at least send the arrows flying when she looses them, now."

"Can she aim them?" the Pretender asked.

"Like an old woman in a darkened room," the grey-snob answered. "But yes; she _can_ aim them. She's about as good at archery as she is at throwing daggers."

"Cicero would like to point out that when Critare throws a dagger, she does so with much more force than when she simply swings it. Therefore, _Cicero_ is the better teacher."

"Veezara?" asked the Pretender.

Scales sighed, "She isn't at all comfortable with a weapon in her hand. She holds it out from her like it were a snake. She still swings it too slow and too weakly to be of any harm- as you already knew. And when ever in combat she just turns her face with it held out and hopes someone might fall on it. She can't use a dagger. Period."

"That's quite alright, I wasn't planning on giving her dagger anyways."

"_What?!_" exclaimed Cicero.

The Pretender ignored him and moved on another 'trainer', "Festus, is this list of spells you gave me correct?"

"Yes, she can do all of them."

"Babette said something to me about being about to conjure a dagger for herself, why is that not on here?"

"She did, but only once. Besides, I had assumed that a magic dagger would be of little use to her... er, having heard of her skill with using a real one."

"Hm... Babette, she knows all your recipes, right?"

"Well, not _all_ of them, but more than what she could possibly ever need to know."

"Then that settles it. Babette, I'll be giving you the list of things that I want sent with Critare. Please, help her pack them."

"Wait! _No!_ Tell Cicero what is planned for Critare! How will she defend herself?"

Cicero heard the muted voice of the grey-snob, from what it sounded like, talking to Critare about something she wanted her to do before she left tomorrow. But then, everyone began to leave the Pretender's room, leaving Cicero without an answer to his concern.

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero hadn't let himself sleep the previous night. He needed to start his day early so he could begin his final chance to make Critare a gift. Today was his _last_ oppurtunity before she left tonight.

From morning 'till evening, he scavenged the woodlands for only the choicest flowers, mushrooms, berries, branches, leaves, and vines. After he decided he had spent enough time searching, he returned to the Sanctuary at about dusk with a basket overflowing with all he had found. He really had no idea what he was going to do for her, and so had thought it best to just gather as many things as he could now and figure out the hard part later.

He ran to the bunks and began quietly riffling through un-child's chest and cupboard of things, failing to find what he searched for after looking a dozen times. Cicero huffed, deciding he would just have to make the best out of the wreath without any twine. He turned on his heel, making to head out of the bunk area, and swore he could have kicked himself at that very moment as he laid eyes on the sought after spool and scissors sitting on top the un-child's nightstand.

Grabbing them, he dashed back to the hallway and came skidding to a halt as soon as he saw Critare and the little monster chatting away at each other.

Too focused on hiding the 'borrowed' items from the two as he cautiously made his way over to them, he hadn't yet noticed the activity the two were presently engaged in or the fact that they were standing by the table holding his basket of things. At least not until after they had greeted him.

"Oh, hi there, Cicero," Critare greeted him warmly with a soft smile. "Look at all these berries and things someone had left here for us."

It was at that moment as she spoke, that he realized Critare was standing with a few mountain flowers in her hands, applying them to the hair of a seated un-child.

Cicero stared as she went on speaking, "It wasn't you, was it?"

Cicero dropped the spool and scissors, grabbing at his head and running out of the Sanctuary, screaming.

~[•|0|•]~

"Dear Sithis, Lord of the Void and Nothingness, why is it so easy to kill a person yet so much _harder_ to find them a proper gift?"

Cicero sighed, looking up at the night sky from where he laid on his back on a length of ruined wall lining the Falkreath graveyard. The sky was partially clear of clouds and mist, leaving the stars unusually visible.

He had tried visiting the markets in Falkreath to make a last minute search for something to give Critare, even though he knew it was after the hour most merchants in the city closed... and their track record of business with him. No one would even _answer_ their doors to poor Cicero.

"Oh, Sithis... please send Cicero a thing which he can give. He only has so many hours left."

"Why are you talking to stars?"

Cicero turned to see a snotty half-ling looking at him oddly. These little brats always seemed to think that his attire somehow meant he was child-friendly or something. Which couldn't be further from the truth.

"Little bratty boys should know better than to come out at night when the vampires and werewolves do."

"My mommy and daddy say they hunt wolves. So I guess that's like hunting werewolves."

"Pfft! Cicero has killed _people!_"

"No you haven't."

"Argh. Little boy should really scurry along. Cicero is trying to think, here."

"You're not the _boss_ of me."

Cicero rolled his eyes and turned himself, throwing a dagger at the child. Well, not _at_ the child really, but just at the space in front of his feet. The action had its intended affect on the boy, who ran away crying.

The jester looked back at the sky, staring up at it longingly as he went on pleading.

"Please..." he prayed again. "Something. _Anything_."

Cicero lifted his head again, turning it in the direction of an odd grunting which was coming from the outskirts of the city. He tried to disregard it and returned to his pondering, but after a certain number of minutes without the grunts and snorts stopping, he decided he had had enough of it.

He pulled his dagger from the ground and went off towards the woods.

"Look, Cicero shall only tell you once..."

He trailed off. As soon as he passed around the tree he had spotted the source of the annoyance. A lone pig.

"What is such a fat piggy doing out here all alone at this hour? Cicero thought it had been a person?"

As the pig went on grunting, noising through the patch of weeds it had discovered ignorantly, Cicero was struck with an idea. He turned the hilt of his dagger in his hands as he slowly pondered it.

It seemed presentable, so why not?

Cicero checked his surroundings, making sure no one else was around. The pig could likely belong to someone in the village, and it wouldn't do if he was seen or heard.

No one. All was quiet.

Cicero made a silent prayer of thanks to Sithis before drawing closer to the pig...

~[•|0|•]~

Cicero had been rubbing the gift with a cloth, polishing it's surface to a smooth glow, when he suddenly heard a scream.

It was Critare and, by the sound of it, she was in danger. She had to be! Never in all the time Cicero knew her had she ever made a sound so loud.

"Cicero, _help!_" she cried.

"Coming, Critare!" Cicero shrieked, already at his feet and bounding in the direction of her screams.

He thoughtlessly followed the screams down the halls and into the corridor leading to one place: the chamber which had been cornered off for Liz, the grey-snob's pet.

"Cicero is _coming_," the jester shouted as he kicked down the door which opened to Liz's chamber.

Cicero had never seen Liz or heard of what she was, so he couldn't have known better than to assume that the adult frostbite spider he saw touching Critare with it's ugly legs was a monster which had eaten the real pet.

"_F__iend!_" Cicero shouted, leaping in between the beast and Critare, who cowered against a wall.

Cicero slashed at one of the fiend's legs with his dagger, causing the creature to hiss and back away.

"When will your kind ever learn? Back! _Back!_ Do not dare harm sweet-"

He stopped his raving at the sound of an arrow whizzing past his head.

The man whirled around to glare murderously at the grey-snob who glared back as she knocked another arrow on her bowstring.

"What are you doing, fool! _Aim_- then fire!"

"I am!" she spat, aiming for his head again.

Critare squeaked and jerked Cicero out of the arrows path just in time.

"You dare loose an arrow _at the Keeper?_" Cicero shouted, readying himself to pounce at the snob.

The wench put down her bow, instead drawing her dagger and dropping into a pose mirroring Cicero's.

"_Stop! Stop!_" Critare cried.

The two ignored the girl's pleas and went at each other. Cicero swung his dagger at the elf in an arch while she thrust her's straight at him. He twirled out of her way, changing the angle of his swing enough to just catch her arm with the blade. The wench hissed as the metal cut through her skin.

Both regained their footing again before making to charge earchother, being pulled back as soon as they began to move forward.

"What is going on!" the Pretender yelled.

"Let go of Cicero! Let go!" the jester shrieked as he felt his arms pinned back by the softy and dog.

He saw the same happening to the grey-snob, who was instead being held back by the un-child and Pretender. At least the weren't assuming that it was all him this time.

"What in the name of Mephala are you two fighting about?" the little monster exclaimed.

"Do not ask Cicero! Ask _that_ one," he made to point at the elf across the room from him but was restrained by the dog. "_She's_ the one who started it! Not Cicero."

"Gabriella," asked the Pretender lowly, "what happened?"

"_He_ was attacking Liz."

Cicero scoffed, "Liz? I was attacking the beast which _ate_ Liz! And was about to eat sweet Critare had I not stopped it!"

"You stupid son of a-"

"Gabriella!" the Pretender hissed.

"So, that's it, then?" the mutt asked, beginning to laugh. "You think that the spider _ate_ the pet?"

"Well, of course it did!" Cicero snapped.

The mutt began laughing- laughing at Cicero- driving the jester into a red haze of vision.

He fought against the dog's grip, nearly breaking through it, "Stop it! Stop that _laughing!_"

"It's true," Critare exclaimed. "I came in here and all I saw was that spider. I didn't see Liz at all. I think- I think the spider ate Liz, Gabriella. I'm sorry..."

"Ugh," the snob groaned. "You idiots! The spider didn't eat my pet- she _is_ my pet!"

"Liz is... a spider?" Critare whispered.

"Well, what did you think it was? A little _bunny?_" the snobby-snob laughed so snobbishly.

"Something... with fur, maybe... But not a big spider."

Critare hung her head in shame, making Cicero grind his teeth.

"Stop laughing at Critare!"

"Calm down, clown. Or we'll just have to hang on to you longer," said the dog.

Cicero bared his teeth, but said nothing.

The Pretender sighed, "Criatre, you had to push two dead skeevers a-day through Liz's food door for the past few months. What did you _think_ you were feeding?"

Critare shrugged, looking at her feet sadly.

"Are you both telling me you never learned Liz was a frostbite spider?"

Critare shrugged again. Cicero, on the other hand, would have none of it.

"Who in the name of Sithis even keeps _spiders_ for pets, anyways?"

"I don't know," the elf bit back. "Probably the same person who has to live with a guy who keeps a pet corpse."

Cicero was about to retort but softy cleared his throat.

"So, um, Critare," he started. "What happened next then- after you saw Liz?"

Critare lowered her head again before speaking, "She came down from the ceiling. And I started screaming. I- I thought she wasn't the pet. That she was something else."

"You screamed for Cicero?"

Critare nodded.

"Wait," asked the greeny. "Why were you even in Liz's room?"

"Gabriella had asked for me to clean it for her... She said it's always done twice a year."

The softy sighed, "So let me guess, then you," he nudged Cicero, "came in here, knives a'blazing and attacked the spider."

"You mean the dangerous beast Cicero just saved Critare from? Yes."

"She was- touching me," Critare said, "I thought she was going to hurt me."

It was the little monster's turn to sigh, "Liz is harmless, Cri. She wouldn't have hurt you."

"I'm sorry." Critare said.

"So is Liz," the imp commented, looking up at the giant spider lying at the top of the opposite wall, hissing at them all.

"That's right, Critare. You really ought to be sorry," said the Pretender before crossing over to the girl who looked back up at her mistress with worry.

A moment more passed before the Pretender finally raised her hand and briskly smacked Critare across the face with it. Critare gave no response at all other than hanging her head. Cicero fought against the hold of his restrainers, having every intention of cutting the Pretender down where she stood.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Critare," she hissed. "This is inexcusable! Tonight- _tonight_- you leave and still you don't even have the nerve to keep it together around a little spider. Do you have any idea what would have happened to you if you had screamed like that while on a contract? You would have been imprisoned or killed and your whole family would have been exposed! Do you want that for us, Critare? Do you want us all to die?"

Critare sniffed and shook her head, her lip quivering.

"I certainly hope not! Now go pack your things and be gone! You had better not fail on this first contract, or those guards and jail cells will be the least of your worries."

Critare nodded and ran out of the room.

"Babette, you go with her. Once she's packed, I want her gone."

The un-child did as she was told and the crowd began to break apart afterwards. Cicero and the grey-snob were released, and the softy began to follow the Pretender back to her room. Cicero did as well. He was going to have his piece with that not-Speaker. She was not going to treat his Critare so wrongly any longer.

He angrily paced outside her bedroom door, half-listening to the conversation with in.

"The poor girl's already disturbed enough as it is, Astrid," said the softy. "Do we really need to send her off to kill someone?"

"She'll live!"

"That's not what I'm talking about! This is something she really doesn't want to do. She's been crying for hours into the night these past few days!"

"She always cries, Nazir."

"Not like this. And you know what I've been trying to tell you. Whatever ounce of sanity she has left is gonna' get crushed if we send her out! Look, there's still time to change this, I'll even volunteer-"

"Are you _questioning_ my decisions as a leader? _Your_ leader?"

"Damn it, Astrid! Everyone makes mistakes!"

"Sure they do. But this isn't a mistake."

Softy sighed, "Come now, Astrid. What is this about; _pride?_"

"This is about business! I have no need for _pride_. I know what I am, and that is someone who can remake people. You are an example of this yourself- or have you forgotten what you once were, Nazir? No one who's ever been taken under my wing, have I failed to transform. I've accomplished it every time in the past, and I will be successful now! I do it all on my own, with no help or guidance and..."

The Pretender went on with her rant as the little monster and Critare passed Cicero in the halls, on their way to the door leading out of the Sanctuary.

"Wait," he said, "Critare is leaving already?!"

The un-child rolled her eyes, "Duh, why else would we be going this way?"

"Argh!" Cicero ran off to his room.

~[•|0|•]~

"Wait, Critare! Wait!" Cicero called out.

Critare did as she was asked and turned to look at the jester bounding over to her as if he had moments to live. They were outside the Sanctuary a number of hours after midnight. He took her hands in his, looking into her eyes earnestly.

"Cicero wanted to say good-bye to Critare," he said, embracing her. "And- and he wanted to ask her to be careful."

"I will," she whispered.

Cicero gulped.

"Cicero... was also wanting to give Critare something before she went..."

Cicero took a deep breath, pulling out the cloth-wrapped gift and placing it in Critare's purple-hued hands.

"For you," he said.

Cicero held his breath as Critare carefully removed the cloth, uncovering a pretty heart shining softly red in the moonlight.

"A heart," she said.

Cicero nodded nervously.

Critare looked at her gift hesitantly, "Cicero... did this come from a person?"

Cicero left out a breath. What had he been thinking? A _pig's_ heart? He had had plenty of people in the city whose heart's he could have harvested- and he ended up giving her just some plain, filthy pig's? He had ruined _everything_.

Cicero wrung his hands uneasily.

"Cicero- Cicero has something to confess to good, honest, _thoughtful_ Critare..."

"Confess?" Critare quirked her head to the side.

Cicero exhaled once more, "That is not a human's heart that he gave her. It is a pig's heart. B-but don't worry now! Let Cicero go get Critare a real heart. She _deserves_ a real one."

Cicero snatched the heart away from Critare, fleeing away from her. He had _blown_ it!

"Cicero?" Critare called after him, hopelessly confused with what had just occured.

* * *

_Thanks to everyone for all their support and reviews! They make my day. _

_We're now half-way through this story. Six more to go from here, friends!_

_That said, I have some sad news. This week, knowing my schedule, I'd say that it's very unlikely that I'll be able to return to my normal 7-10 update period- at least for this week. So I wouldn't say to expect one. I'm really sorry guys. I really am. :(_

_What had been your favorite part in this chapter?_

_Thanks for reading and **please review!**_


	7. Moonbeams

_I'm making no apologies._

_October was a pretty suck-ass month for me, personally. During it my dad was diagnosed with cancer and I found out that my mom is in the midst of a pregnancy she may not survive. So last month I pretty much took a break and made school work my main focus as I tried to deal with all this stuff._

_Nevertheless, I will finish this story. I don't start anything on this site that I won't finish._

* * *

The weeks following Critare's departure had been the amongst the longest in Cicero's life. And the most agonizing, by far.

He had worried himself to sleep the first night, fidgeting internally with all his insecurities over what he had presented Critare hours before. His first thoughts the following morning after he had leapt out of bed where to see his friend so they could go about whatever the day presented them together, as they had all those previous weeks. His second thought was that she wasn't there for him to spend the day with anymore.

He had flopped back down on his bed once he recalled this, feeling an awful yet small weight bearing down in his chest.

One day. Two days. Three days were all it took for Cicero to finally complete his contraption for Mother. He didn't know why he even bothered with it. The whole point of making the stupid thing was so it could offer Her UnHoliness protection while he was away, helping Critare... which he wasn't. His progress before the girl had left had been slow, slow, _slow_. But in her absence, he had worked tirelessly on it. Obsessively, even. Devoting every anxious thought and bit of nervous energy to it. And then... it was done, just like that.

Cicero had sprung the complex trap once or twice right after its completion, telling himself that he was merely testing it. After the fifth 'test' he decided that he would quit lying to himself and just install it into the Night Mother's sarcophagus. Thirty minutes or so later, the process was completed. The poor jester sighed. For the remainder of the day he tried to think of something he could do. Something that could be done without Critare.

Four days. Five. Six and seven. Somewhere on that seventh day marking the first week since Critare left for her contract, Cicero had begun to worry. He had worried ever since she left, really- well, even _before_ she left, if he wanted to be entirely realistic- but that was beside the point!

Critare ought to have been back by this time... If she had been taking a carriage, that is. Of course, Cicero had no way of knowing if she was traveling by carriage, thanks to that Pretender... And if she was traveling by foot, it would take longer. Of course it would... But then again, she was after a mercenary. A busy, busy mercenary- who is in someplace one day and then another the next. Having to chase a mercenary all over the country would be a very time consuming task, indeed. _Indeed_, indeed. Especially when one considered all the nuances of travel, traveling could take a very long time. With the bandits and the bears and the little fishes that liked to bite and the tall, _slippery cliffs_-

Cicero burst into a fit of giggles, prying the end of his dagger into the grain of his wood table a little more roughly.

"Slippery cliffs!" he screeched, but not quite yelled. "They'll kill us all. When we pay no mind. They'll get us when we slip- all in our own time."

Eight days. Nine days.

"Wake up!" Cicero spat quietly, shaking the sleeping un-child.

"Go away," she muttered groggily, turning herself over to try and avoid the jester's reach.

"But Cicero needs the un-child _now!_ This is urgent- no, _no!_ You will not _dare_ go back to sleep, you little-"

The imp was up on her feet in a flash, her face inches from his as one tiny hand grasped the collar of his heavy tunic while another held a knife to his throat.

"I will cut you," she said, her tiny voice like it always was but her dark, little eyes speaking volumes to her vexation. The fact that they looked so tired only served to make them more menacing.

Cicero blinked, "Well, _someone's_ a grumpy little bear."

The un-child groaned, pushing him away from her.

"Go _suck_ an _egg_, Cicero!" she said as she tried to kick him with one of her stout legs, only causing her to loose her balance and fall back onto her bed.

"Oo-ooh, but _please_, little blood-sucker! Cicero needs your help."

She crossed her arms, "Ugh, fine. What for?"

He took a deep breath, "Cicero needs the list of items given to Critare when she left- nine days ago... Er, what's wrong?"

"_What's wrong?!_ You woke me up for that shit!"

"It is important!"

"_It_ could have waited until morning!"

The little monster huffed before climbing down off her bed and leading Cicero out of the bunks, grumbling to herself.

"The little monster should know she could have just told Cicero where to find this list," he said once they were within the room the imp kept her alchemy table.

"Oh, and have you run through all my things again?" she asked pointedly.

Cicero recalled mess he had made of her chest and cabinet when he had searched through them for a spool of twine and scissors only ten days earlier. He stiffened, closing his mouth.

It only took a moment for the un-child to produce a small slip of paper which she then handed to him.

"Here," she snapped.

"Why Cicero thanks the lit-" his words were cut off as he felt himself being pulled down, grasped at the collar again by the un-child.

"Next time, someone better be dying. Or- Sithis help me- I will take whatever it is you wake me for and stick it down throat."

The jester blinked, "Cicero looks foward to it."

The un-child sighed before kicking Cicero, having success this time.

The jester yelped and clutched at his shin before looking over the slip.

"Eh... Cicero can hardly understand this..."

Ten.

Cicero slept late into the day, much to everyone's liking. He had been up the previous night trying to decipher the needle-like writing on the paper he had been given. By the time he had finished he had about enough energy left to worry frantically over what he had discovered for an hour before collapsing, asleep, into his chair.

When he woke, it was evening. He went about asking if Critare had returned yet, knowing the answers but unable to help himself.

Wringing his hands, the jester went to Mother's audience room, sighing as he spotted the withering garland.

For the remainder of the day and long into the night he rambled madly about what plan he had learned the Pretender had given his friend.

_Things to keep warm: a cloak, fur mittens and shoes. Enough alchemical ingredients to allow her to make what she needs, be it healing elixirs or poisons, but just the right balance so she's not suspected of malintent if her bag is inspected. Anything else she needs can be recovered from the land- she ought to travel light. And make sure she knows to never walk out a city's parameters with an unused potion in her pack unless she's looking to be looted by bandits. Also, give her some herbs and spices with cooking purposes only. Thirty septims; enough to get her to Whiterun and a night at the inn there. If she needs more money- that's what her ingredients and empty bottles are for. A bowl for mixing and brewing. A map. A few apples and some bread._

"Not even a teeny, little herb knife to protect herself from wicked thorns Mother. Ha-ha! Can you believe that. No, no. Critare is dead. Dead, dead. _Ho-ho!_ But hey, at least she was given some fur boots and mittens, you see? Now at least when the skeevers come to nibble at what's left, her fingers and toes will be nice and warm for them. That's nice, don't you think? Now, _isn't it?_"

Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Sixteen.

The tenth day had set the daily routine for the jesters following week.

Sleep through half the day. Get up. Eat something. Raise hell in the Sanctuary. Retreat to the Night Mother's audience room. Prattle on whatever thought popped into his head until dawn. Rinse and repeat.

Most topics he'd discuss in his long, frantic monologues to Mother included help for Critare, making him Listener, punishing that Pretender, making him Listener so he could hear her say what had become of Critare, new plans for Mother's coffin-trap, how he missed Critare, how he longed to hear Mother's voice, songs for Mother, and when things were ever going to get less boring around the Sanctuary.

By the seventeenth day, Cicero's anxiety just became too much to bear.

He had snapped.

Scales and softy had to fight to keep him pinned to the ground as they shouted for the others to hurry, trying to keep their voices audible over the screaming jester and the growing fire. The other assassins suspected nothing when they had seen Cicero shuffling in and out of the halls minutes before, cackling buoyantly to himself as he carried armfuls of straw- straw that they weren't aware was being taken from their bunks. At the sound of shattering glass and the smell of smoke creeping through the halls that soon followed after, half the assassins had ran into the enchanting and potion-crafting room to find Cicero, bouncing on his heels atop a mound of burning straw and firewood. The bottle shards of half the un-child's elixir store littered the ground, dowsing it with their many contents. Any remaining bottles must have been stored in Cicero's pockets, as he somehow kept producing another to throw on the fire under him and watch in delight as the liquids were ate up in red, cyan, viridian, or lavender breaths of flame.

Greeny and the softy were quick to get him off the burning mound and pin him to the floor after hastily picking their way around the sharp mess. They screamed for the doggy and grey-snob to come and help put out the fire between shouts for the un-child to hurry as she scurried through her wrecked cabinet, shouting back at them.

"My Dark family!" he had merrily greeted them when they walked in, utterly oblivious to their shocked faces and enraged shouts.

"_Three fool boys of Morthal,_

_They prayed a prayer to Mother,_

_But had our dear Night Mother heard,_

_My rhyme'd be less absurd._"

Even when he was being roughly grabbed and slammed to the ground he didn't stop shouting his nonsense for a moment.

"Dark Brothers! Dark Sisters! _Why_ do we wait and hide? We are the Dark Brotherhood! Let us set the world on fire tonight! What have we to fear of those bears and wolves and all their music! Who cares for gold when we have such green moss growing out our ears? Hee-hee! Make room for me, do not forget! Never, never forget these last dying words of mine- ha-ha-ha-ha-_hee!_ Madness is merriment and merriment's might- come now, all you- sing with me! Sithis is most displeased with their indifference. _Ho-ho-ho-ho! He'll kill us all!_"

Cicero stopped for nothing. He was utterly out of touch with reality. Even with the numerous shards of glass cutting into his back and the various sensations of burning, itching, cooling, and numbing leaking into the wounds, he didn't stop fighting against those holding him down. Not until the little monster had forced whatever sedative it was she had finally found down his throat.

The doggy and grey-snob were quick to realize after dumping water on the fire that the kindle had been supplemented with some sort of oil. With the fire twice as bad, they frantically roused the sleeping wizard awake and out of his chair and had him put it out with a magic frost.

Cicero woke to find himself in his room strapped- tightly- to an old, out-of-use torture table leaning against one of his walls. Nearly a whole day had passed since Cicero's episode, the Pretender furiously demanding that he be left alone for a whole day. And another half-day passed before the un-child walked into the jester's chamber to find him completely still and quiet and awake on the board.

"Are you feeling good now?"

She still let him down anyway when he didn't reply.

For the next few days Cicero dedicated his hours solely to making improvements to the contraption he had placed in Mother's sarcophagus- time during which he did not make a sound. All additions, tunings and modifications were entirely unnecessary and really only served the purpose of giving him something to do with his destructive energy. It also kept his thoughts from running away with him.

So by the twenty-first day, when he had exhausted all possible tweeks that could be made to the complex device, he had sighed and said,

"... wonder what Critare would have thought of it..."

It was the first thing he had said in days and he regreted the words as soon as they left his mouth. Now he was thinking about it all again.

He wondered around the Sanctuary, eventually seating himself in the kitchen with the other members of his 'family'. If he had looked up he would have noticed that half of those seated with him- the un-child, greeny, softy, and the wizard- were all as quiet and despondent-looking as he was.

In Critare's absence, the grey-snob had been forced to take up the burden of cooking for her fellow lackeys- a task she had carried out before had a slave to do so for her and one that she was absolutely thrilled about having to return to.

She had just finished the stew when the Pretender had entered the room. Taking in the expressions of half of those at the table, the not-Speaker seemed to stiffen some with her expression hardening, but went on seating herself with everyone else anyways.

Finally, about half-way through the quiet, unhappy meal, the Pretender threw her goblet down.

"Damn it, all of you!" she hissed. "She's fine! Do you hear me? _She is fine!_"

Softy and scales and the little monster had all quietly lowered their eyes, like children watching their mother and father fight at dinner.

Things went on in a tense silence for a minute more before the jester blurted,

"Cicero blames the un-child!"

"What?!" the imp threw her hands down on the table.

"If it wasn't for you, she might never have learned how to craft a poison. And now she's probably swallowed it- ha-ha! If it weren't for you she would still be here, washing the socks of all you _lazy, lazy sloths!_"

"Get the hell out- _now_, Cicero!" snapped the Pretender.

"No!" he sang out, bouncing up out of his seat.

"Cicero was _already_ leaving!" he finished, leaping out of the room as he cackled like he had won.

He returned to Mother's audience room, whispering nonsense to her again long through the night.

_Twenty-one. Twenty-two._

_Twenty-three. Four._

_Shall it take a_

_Whole twenty more?_

Over the next week, Cicero returned to a routine much like the one he had in the days leading to his break-down. Sleep became sarce. After rambling hushed prayers to the Night Mother to make him Listener, to bring back Critare, and to punish the Pretender for hours on end, he would fall onto a stone pew and sleep maybe one or two hours. He'd wake and tend to Mother's audience room, going over tasks again and again once he had finally run out of things that needed cleaning or keeping. One of the challenges of this was in ignoring the garlands lining the walls along the room which were long past their time and drying out were they hung, dropping flakey little petals on the ground under them. Cicero couldn't bare to take it down yet, but it was still a constant reminder of a friend he had been trying to keep his mind off of. He had settled for trying to ignore the things altogether with little success.

At some point in the day, Cicero would leave the Night Mother and find himself something to eat in the kitchen when it was not occupied by anyone else. Sometimes this couldn't be avoided. Sometimes he would have to eat with his dark siblings around him. That was how he noticed the Pretender's sudden habit to stare at him acidly- almost suspiciously- when she thought he wasn't looking. Cicero didn't know why this was. Frankly he didn't care. He presumed it couldn't have had anything to do with his behavior which had been so abnormally _un_-bothersome of the late. The other members of the Sanctuary had no idea what to make of the Keeper's sudden change of habits. Most just hoped he wouldn't end the episode violently again.

At around sunset he would leave the Sanctuary and sit outside it, watching the roads, waiting. He would return to the Sanctuary- a time which was different everyday- when he couldn't bare waiting any longer. The jester would make his lonely pilgrimage to Mother's audience room, where he'd purge every waking, disturbed thought onto her dead ears.

One day though, when Cicero came outside to wait and watch, he found that he was not alone.

It was dusk, so there was just enough light out for him to still see a faint line of smoke rising behind a nearby thicket. Not knowing what to think, Cicero investigated. Not interested in the least with what the source of the smoke might be. Though he had not been guessing anything in particular, finding the softy, had been the last thing he would have guessed of.

Much less the softy in a state of _complete_ inebriation.

He was reclined with his back laid out on a low boulder in the clearing. Bottles of some specific Hammerfell liquor lay around him, most emptied.

Though at the moment he was occupied with a small wooden tube. Cicero didn't have to think hard to realize that this pipe was responsible for the smoke. Or to realize its part in the Redgaurd's present state.

Cicero stepped through the thicket, choosing to enter the clearing with the softy as he couldn't think of anything better to do. Cicero pondered half-heartedly on what must have been burning in that barrel. He had been around enough of Skyrim to have learned that skooma was the poison of choice here- along with everywhere else. Yet nothing in the scent wafting at him hinted at moon sugar.

"Oh, hey there," softy greeted to the jester once he noticed he was there. The man's speech was thick, as if his tongue was made of rubber. That and his heavy, gazed over eyes were indicative of just how intoxicated he was.

The Redguard didn't seem to mind it when Cicero didn't reply, just leaving the jester be as he sat himself atop a stone next to him.

Softy was the first to break the silence.

"Can't do this in the Sanctuary," he finally grunted, raising his pipe for Cicero to see. "Astrid would have my head. Made it very clear this wouldn't be tolerated. A month ago I would have got so pissed with myself if I had done this. But tonight- tonight it just couldn't be helped."

He let out a long, aggravated sigh, lifting the pipe again.

"Here's to eleven years clean out the door," he said before taking another long drag out of the pipe.

"So is this what you do every night now," he pointed to Cicero, smoke puffing out his mouth as he spoke. "Go and sit outside."

Silence. Cicero lowered his gaze.

"I get it. We all do. Uh, most of us at least. We're all worried... You- you know what you need? You could use some of _this_," the Redguard held his pipe out to Cicero, offering it.

"Oh, _now_ don't be so snub- or whatever they say. Its a lot better than lighting a bunch of shit on fire and er, going crazy."

The softy sighed and leaned back onto his boulder once he had finally forced the pipe into Cicero's hands. Cicero did nothing to acknowledge it. Justing holding it away from himself as it smoldered.

Softy gazed up at the night sky as he went on talking, "Wormwood leaves with trama and canis roots. One of my old little mixtures. Found the last two to be more than decent relaxants if used just right. The wormwood's good for counteracting the more... nasty effects of the roots. Ugh. Better than that filth they bring in from Eiswer, anyway. Don't see anything that's not there with my stuff. Cheap. You can get it any where. Plus, you won't ever attack anything that moves. The trick is to _not be picky..._

"Damn that Astrid," he sighed. "She always was so pig-headed... But this time, ugh... S'been thirty days, you know. Since she left. That's- that's a _whole month!_"

Cicero turned away, looking up at the night sky himself now. The pipe still remained un-touched in his hand, the smoke wafting from the barrel and into the open night air.

"Too long," he whispered.

_Thirty-one_

_Dead and done._

_Thirty-two_

_Swallowed her brew._

_Thirty-three_

_Crushed by a tree._

_Thirty-four_

_Gored by a boar._

Thirty-five. She finally returned.

Cicero had been waiting outside again that night, wringing his hat in his hands, when he heard the sound of leaves being tread softly under foot. He made no move to investigate this time and merely waited for the source to come to him- if it ever did. It could have just been a rabbit for all he knew.

Then heard a soft voice- soft as a dove's coo.

"Cicero?"

Cicero stood, holding his breath. He walked out to where he could see the trail leading to the Sanctuary door more clearly when he saw her. Critare.

He stood there for a moment, watching her dumbly, before charging her way and embracing her.

He spun her around as he shouted, "Oh! Cicero has missed Critare _so_ much! He thought she might have died or been kidnapped. Maybe even arrested. Ooh, he couldn't bare not knowing! But you're back! You're back and oh so safe and with Cicero! What happened? Are they dead? Did Critare run into trouble? Cicero will cut them all _down!_"

Finally Cicero stopped spinning and placed Critare back onto the ground sighing, "Cicero missed Critare."

The girl opened her mouth, looking as though she were about to speak, when Cicero piped in again.

"How did it go? Things were not too hard for Critare, were they? She had managed to do it without being caught, _right?_"

Critare lowered her eyes for a moment, before bringing them back to Cicero's. "I met a merchant on the way back, one that sold plant things. He was really nice. And since he liked my wreaths so much he asked me to make some for him for his wife. Other people saw them and really liked them too. Some even paid me to make some for them."

"That's very nice, Critare. But how did the killing go?"

"Um... The merchant was so happy after I made him his wreaths, that he let me make one for myself."

She reached into her bag, "Only I didn't make it for me. I had made it for you."

Critare produced a wreath from her satchel, handing it to Cicero who held it preciously as he examined it. The foundation was composed of something that looked like white creep cluster. The rest was filled with a pretty array of frost miriam, yellow mountain flower, white sage, and even wheat.

"Cicero doesn't know what to say... He loves it and will treasure it always. He swears," he smiled at Critare. "Oh, Cicero wishes he could craft a gift like this for Critare... He had tried _so hard_ to find her something presentable. He had tried whittlings and little clothes and fishes and songs-"

"You had tried to give me fishes?"

"Yes, yes, Cicero had. Caught them all with no trouble. But those treacherous water-rats thought it'd be funny to die on me the next day. What a _laugh_."

"Oh... Well, you did put them in water, didn't you?"

"Of course Cicero _did_. Left them in a bucket in the Sanctuary," he replied, a bit stung at the assumption that he could have been so dull.

"Oh... Well, then maybe that's what killed them... You know... Most fish like water to be only so hot or cold... Maybe the water in the bucket was too warm for them."

"Of course!" Cicero whispered to himself, now feeling like a fool. "But, oh, never mind the fish. Tell Cicero about your contract."

Critare swallowed, "Th- the giants were nice. They let me pet the mammoths."

"Gah, I had asked about the con- _wait!_ Did you just say you pet mammoths?! As in _touched the pets of giants?!_"

Critare nodded weakly.

"Are you _mad_, woman? You never touch the mammoths! No one ever touches them! Coming within fifty feet of them is enough to make their giants angry with their clubs! Don't you know that it's dangerous."

"But they let me."

"They... _let you?_"

"They liked me, I think... After I helped one pull an arrow out of his foot, I put a healing salve on it. He was happy, it sounded like. He led me back to his camp and I realized eventually that he wanted me to help dress some wounds on his friends. They were all happy. They gave me some of their skeever dinner. I made them some garlands. They started showing me things around their camp. All the nice things they've found, painted rocks, and purple tree sap. The last thing they showed me were the furry mammoths. They were so hairy and warm. After that they gave me cheese and... I went on my way."

Cicero sighed, "Alright, Critare. But what happened on your contract?"

"I- I had to hide one night in a cave. I was hiding from some really big spiders-"

"Spiders!" he drew his dagger reflexly. "If Cicero were there he'd have- oh, but that doesn't matter. Tell, then, what happened on your contract next. Don't leave poor Cicero in _suspense_."

"They didn't find me... I was able to leave the next morning."

She was avoiding the topic, Cicero realized.

"Good. Good. Now please tell eager Cicero what happened."

Critare averted her eyes, "Um, but I did find this in the cave."

The girl pulled what looked like a red-glowing nirnroot out of her satchel.

"Have you ever seen anything like it?"

"That- that's _very nice_ Critare. But-"

"I saw a man vomit green stuff on a fox."

"Critare, please-"

"It killed it. And- and then there was a lost horse in the middle of nowhere-"

"_Critare!_" Cicero rang out sharply, grasping Critare by the arms.

Critare finally looked Cicero in the eyes again, watching him sadly.

Cicero observed her for a moment before he spoke again; slowly, clearly. Calmly.

"What happened?"

Cicero regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. He saw that look which he was far too familiar with cross Critare's face. That look of futile resistance steeling against a torrent of misery about over come her. That look which she always wore when she was just a moment- a moment- from breaking down.

And she did.

"Hush, hush, Critare," he said soothingly, holding her to him as she sobbed onto his shoulder.

He honestly did not know what to do. Much less, what to think. All he knew was that he had his closest friend crying on his shoulder- and about her contract, as it seemed. What could have happened? Did he get away? Did she get caught? Did she give the poison to the wrong person? If he didn't know what had happened, how could he sooth her?

"Critare... Critare... Are you worried the Pretender will punish you for making your mistake?"

Critare sniffed. "W-What?"

"You're contract. It is alright if Critare made a mistake while completing her contract. Not everyone was cut-out to be an assassin, like Cicero. There is nothing to worry for. The Pretender will not hurt you. Cicero will not allow for that. Many of the others will not either. You're mistake-"

"But I didn't make any mistake... _really_," and the tears started again.

"What does Critare mean, 'really'?" Cicero asked as he led her to a fallen tree. It was killing him not knowing what had happened. He could fix it if she would just tell him.

Critare shook her head before hiding her face in Cicero's shoulder again. She didn't want to tell him.

"Tell Cicero, he'll understand."

"I can't..."

"Why not?"

"Because its... Because it was so... sad..."

"Oh..." Cicero had forgotten about her reluctance to do harm.

"I'm a bad person, Cicero."

"What?! No. _No_. Critare is not a bad person! She is the kindest, sweetest person Cicero knows. How could she think she was bad?"

Critare hung her head and shrugged.

Cicero was silent for a moment before speaking, "If Critare does not wish to talk about her contract yet, Cicero will respect that. He won't force her to tell him."

The silence that followed stretched on for minutes with Critare making no sign of reply, only staring out into the distance.

Finally she spoke, her small dove's voice quavering a touch despite its distant tone.

"I found him... Or he found me while I waited on a road to Solitude."

"Your contract?"

Critare nodded, face still turned away from Cicero, "Erendriel. It didn't take long. After I went to his boat-home in Whiterun, they said he was going to Solitude after he finished the bounty he was on now. I had been gone for a week by then. So I went north and waited for him with the poison ready on a main thoroughfare. Well... really in the woods near-by... But he still found me. Just saw me on the road when he wasn't paying attention. I followed him when he had greeted me. He mentioned that I really shouldn't be out alone but he didn't suspect anything. So I guess he thought I was staying with him for protection, maybe.

"He had been really nice. He talked all the time and made funny jokes. I didn't laugh at any. I never talked either. He shared food and I helped him with building fires and all those things... One thing he talked a lot about was Anne, the girl he said he loved. They had met in a small village and fell in love right away. He had the sweetest stories to tell. The way he spoke- there was just a look in his eyes... You could tell that he really loved her.

"'But it wasn't enough for her father,' he said. Anne's father didn't want her to marry a wood elf. So he refused to give him his blessing. Erendriel hoped he could prove himself by becoming a mercenary. Two years later, he said he had come back, but things were still the same. So they ran off together to Jorvaskr and they were going to get married within the next two months.

"I- I think that Anne's father had been the one who had placed the contract on Erendriel... Because the person wanted Erendriel gone before those two months were up.

"We had been traveling for four days when we saw... it one night."

"It?"

"The monster," she whispered. "It was so big and loud. And it flew so fast."

"A dragon," Cicero said to himself.

"Everybody in Whiterun had talked about one they said had burt down a house the day before I got there... I didn't believe them. But then I saw it, it was breathing fire everywhere. In the sky and on the grass and even the wolves. Erendriel put out the camp fire and told me to hide. We hid on different sides of the road. I saw him- the monster- get in a fight with a giant. I knew because he would breath fire and I could see it's shape. They were getting awfully close. And soon enough they had gotten so close- and the dragon set the trees nearby me on fire."

Critare paused for a moment, swallowing.

"I... was scared. It scared me. I ran out from the trees. I couldn't help it. It saw me then. Erendriel knew. That's why he charged out at it and hit it with his axe, I think. They fought while I kept hiding. Soon it was over and the dragon was gone and Erendriel was left on the road... I thought he was dead but he kept making sounds... The burns hurt a lot.

"Eventually I was by his side... His eyes were gone, it looked like... Everywhere was black with pink underneath. I tried to heal him with magic. The black started going away- but by the time I was out of mana he was covered more with the dark-pink wet places and he was crying for me to stop. I- he was hurting really bad and I just made it worse... I couldn't think of what to do. He wasn't dying... So I got the bottle from my satchel. And I told him it was a healing potion when I gave it to him... Only it wasn't a healing potion... I didn't know what else to do..."

Critare's eyes met Cicero as they started to spill over with tears, "It's all my fault, Cicero!"

"No, no, no" Cicero began, continuing to assert his words of reassurance when Critare shook her head. "It is not Critare's fault. You were just scared. You didn't mean for it to happen... Er, this way, this way Erendriel dies a hero. He would have rather have you alive and himself dead if someone had to die. Those hero-warriors are all the same like that... It's not your fault. Do not blame yourself, Critare."

"But if I didn't-"

"You were frightened. And you should have ran if there was smoke and fire that close to you. The elf with a name I cannot recall at the moment-"

"Erendriel."

"Yes, _that_. Well, he ran out for you. But he could have ran back afterwards and hid like you-"

"No, he couldn't have-"

"Never mind it, Critare. You did what you could. You gave the fool a quick death. Put him out of his misery. You did a good thing for your contract."

Critare sniffed, "I did?"

Cicero nodded, "Yes. He was going to die anyways Critare. Everyone dies at some point. His was just made a bit sooner because someone placed a contract on him. It was going to happen- whether you did it or someone else. So, so Critare really shouldn't blame herself for the inevitable. And come to think about it, the fool's death probably was. See, Critare tried to stop it. She tried to save him. Perhaps this was just the way things were meant to be. But you still gave him the easy death where he could have had the hard one. Cicero-"

The jester bit his tongue before he went any further. _Cicero would have let the fool have the hard death. And watched it happily._

He cleared his throat, "Don't you think so?"

"I guess," Critare frowned, laying her head against his shoulder. "It's still sad though. Even if it was meant to be that way."

"We don't have to be sad just because what happened was sad," Cicero whispered, stroking Critare's hair.

The jester had meant what he said- and meant it with the purest intentions. That was partly why Critare's sudden outburst- one that was more miserable than it was angry- took him by such surprise.

"But Anne does," she neither snapped nor sobbed. "_Anne_ has to be sad. _Anne_ has to say good-bye to Erendriel. Anne has to be the one who has to wait and wait and wait forever. Anne has to be the one that cries and wonder what happened or where he went or if he's dead or alive and never know the answer. _She_ has to be the one who isn't happy!

"_It's sad!_"

Cicero opened his mouth, about to protest, when he remembered that it was not even an hour ago when he had been in the same position.

He thought it over and decided that he would share this thought with Critare, for what ever comfort it could provide her.

"But Cicero does not have to be. See, it's because of erm, the Erendriel, that Critare comes back to Cicero and he can see her again."

Cicero continued with his low ramble, encouraged by Critare, who was turning her face slowly back to him, and by the sense of joy growing in him as he realized the truth in his own words.

"Were it not for the elf Cicero would be like Anne. He would be the one who said good-bye to Critare and not know it was their last."

Cicero was smiling now and one could easily hear the merriment which was becoming more evident in his voice with every word. And Critare, while her brown eyes still glistened with tears, had stopped crying and seemed to be finding some sort of comfort in Cicero's words. The more he spoke, the more she forgot about the world outside herself and her Sanctuary and all the sadness that always seemed to be prowling through it, just waiting for the opportune chance to smother her again.

"Cicero would be the one who'd be waiting for Critare forever and wonder if she was ever coming back to him. Cicero will never have to worry again if Critare is dead or alive and gets to know where she went and about every little thing she did and every person she met. Anne might have to be the one who is sad, but Cicero... Cicero at least gets to be the one who is happy."

Cicero last words carried off into the night and in a moment silence was once again the only thing that stood between them in the cold night air.

A small smile stretched itself slowly over Critare's face.

A laugh bubbled up from the depths of Cicero's gut.

Suddenly, they were on both their feet; spinning eachother around within the sweet little grove outlying the Sanctuary as Cicero shouted rhymes into the empty night air and Critare giggled, watching him happily.

"_One day more to see Critare!_

_One day more to see her smile!_

_Evermore to spend with her!_

_Nevermore worry will have I'll!_"

Cicero couldn't find it in himself to stop shouting out at the sky. He couldn't even think of it. The happiness he felt consuming his heart was eating up his mind as well as it seemed. And yet he was thinking at the same time.

She was a like a beam of moonlight, Cicero finally decided. It seemed so right, so much the truth. Did he really once think of her flesh as pasty and sickly? Now, with the light of the full moon illuminating her face, the moon seemed to be telling the jester that it was her essence.

He was dancing with a moonbeam cloaked in the ink of night now. It was as simple as that.

"_Narry, Narry; Cicero's merry!_

_He has his dearest friend, you know._"

To anyone else, this moment shared between the two would have looked like nothing more than two equally mad individuals- one jester and one half-starved pauper girl- raving together amongst the low fog in the wilderness; enjoying a sensation of happiness facilitated by a delusion of mutual love.

Perhaps some could appreciate that the jester, half-merry and half-menacing, could bring joy to the dancer who was all too often half-numb and half-grieved- and she, for him.

Buy still. Nothing more meaningful. Nothing more lovely.

"_With skin so fair, we've not a care,_

_And how like the moon does she glow!_"

In truth though, the feelings that where playing out in the hearts of our jester and dancer where ones which have been a muse to artists of every part of the world, of every era. It was a scene of a kind worthy to be captured within the amber of an artist's craft. And it had been so many times before by so many of them; that moment of bliss between two lovebirds as they frolicked about eachother.

But unlike the paintings or carvings, the moment between our jester and dancer carried onto its end.

As soon as it had began, Cicero and Critare slowed their spinning to a stop. Both were panting, looking at one another silently.

"Cicero is happy Critare is back with him," he said.

"And I'm happy to be back here with you, too," she replied, smiling.

Cicero was so happy right then. He didn't know what he was thinking when he did it. In fact, he wasn't think at all. He just... did.

The jester brought his face forward, his lips just touching the dancer's.

Critare pulled back right away, gasping. Cicero was stunned. He didn't know what to do or make of what had just happened. Critare's wide eyes met Cicero's for a brief second. And then, in the blink of an eye, she was gone, having fled into the dark of the woods.

Cicero stood, watching after her. Still shocked by what had occurred.

* * *

_Two last things:_

_First, **do we have any artists out there?** I was wondering if anyone would be interested in making a cover for this story. I had an artist once who had expressed some interest and promised to do it for me once... But it's been three months and I haven't heard from them. I thought now would be a good time to bring this up as the moment with Cri and Cicero spinning around had been what I envisioned for it. But you guys can do whatever you want. I don't have any money to offer you; I'm just a poor student with no artsy skills. All I can give is my appreciation. So anyone interested, please pm me._

_Secondly, we still have a ways to go with this story. So for any of you who have really been enjoying these past few chapters... all I can say to you is to **batten down the ****ing hatches for chapter 8**._

_Thanks for reading and **please review!**_


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